


Broken & Beautiful

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Series: Broken & Beautiful [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hales, Bad Hale Parents, Bad/Evil Gerard, Bad/Evil Kate, Bad/Evil Peter, Brief Sexual Assault (not really graphic), Canonical Child Abuse (Isaac's Abuse), Child Abuse, Evolving Tags, F/M, Faked Death (non-graphic), Gen, Human AU, Implied (referenced) Rape/noncon (of an underage character), NaNoWriMo, Onscreen-not fully graphic rape-(not of underage characters), Panic attack(s), Past Child Abuse, Sheriff's name is John, Successful Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts (complicated), WIP (for now), attempted sexual assualt, past child sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 116,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8830387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Derek’s goal, since he was twelve years old, is to become emancipated like his older sister. However, mowing lawns and cleaning pools isn’t as effective as he had hoped, so he applies for a job at  Kitchen Fresh, the bakery run by the sheriff’s wife. In the span of one night, he is offered an interview, breaks his foot, and has his carefully constructed tower of lies and secrets torn down around him.
Now, while Derek is closer to his goal, he finds himself adrift in a sea of agony and confusion, where the whole town has turned against him, and old and new enemies are around every corner. Through it all, he has to learn how he can be both broken and beautiful.
** Sporadic Updates **





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags and characters will need to be updated the further along we go. Please, don't hesitate to comment if something bothers you or needs to be tagged. Thank you.

~ * ~

Laura is leaving, dragging a suitcase with stickers for Paris and Amsterdam peeling off the corners, a luggage tag dangling from the handle. She grunts and groans as she shoves it through the door. Derek follows her slowly.

“Are you leaving forever?” he asks quietly, watching as she lets her friend, Benjamin, take the suitcase and throw it in the trunk of his parents’ Volvo.

Laura sighs, bending down to wrap her arms around him and hug him tightly. He squirms away after a few seconds, saying, accusingly, “You’re leaving.”

She smiles, sad, and nods. “I’m sorry, Derek, but I can’t stay here. Mom and Dad don’t want me to.”

That’s a lie, Derek thinks. Mom’s been stomping around all day muttering about ultimatums and something called ‘emancipitation.’

Every time Cora hears the word, she screams “Proclamaton!” It’s giving Derek a headache on top of his heartache.

“Can’t you take us with you, at least?” he whines.

“Derek, bud,” Benjamin says, ruffling his hair and patting his back. Derek glares at him. “We’re not abandoning you.” He turns his attention to the porch where Mom and Dad are standing, Cora with them. Derek can see Peter peeking out from the living room window.

“If you leave us here we could die!” Derek says, as dramatically as he can. It’s not for nothing he got to play the lead in the fifth grade play this spring. Then again, it’s easy to pretend for school when he has to pretend every day of his life.

“You won’t die,” Laura snaps. “Look, Derek, I’ll still visit. You’re still my brother and Cora is still my sister.”

“But Mom and Dad aren’t your parents anymore?”

Laura shrugs. “They are, but they’re not in charge of me anymore.”

“Why are they still in charge of me and Cora?”

Laura hugs him again, holding tight even though he starts wriggling almost immediately. “Because I can’t take you with me,” she whispers into his hair, kissing the side of his head. “Baby, I would if I could. I’d take you both so far away from Mom and Dad, but I can’t afford to right now. You know I’m staying with Benjamin and his parents. I don’t even have anything other than what’s in that suitcase to call my own.”

“Will you tell me why you’re leaving?” he asks when it becomes clear she isn’t letting him go any time soon. He thinks she’d squeeze Cora too if Mom would let her. Instead, Mom just glares at Benjamin, like it’s his fault Laura can’t be here anymore, her hands firmly on Cora’s shoulders. Dad was supposed to hold onto Derek while Laura came home and took her clothes and her pillow and blanket and her stuffed wolf and her tennis shoes and the stack of drawings Derek and Cora used to make for her when she would babysit them.

Instead, he’d given Derek a little shove and sent him outside where Benjamin was just pulling up, Laura laughing in the front seat until she caught sight of Mom and Dad and stopped smiling.

Now, she’s leaving, and she’s taking a part of Derek’s heart with her. It hurts and it’s not fair. But, Derek refuses to cry. He’s better than that. Not above whining, but actual tears is not something he’s going to resort to.

He finally escapes Laura’s over-warm embrace and sidesteps Benjamin’s next shoulder punch.

“I love you, Derek,” Laura says before she climbs back into the passenger seat. She’s leaving, waving and smiling with forced cheerfulness. Derek scowls at her, and then glares at the taillights of the Volvo until they disappear around the bend.

He trudges back to the porch, shoulders hitched up to his ears as he watches Mom inhale deeply.

“Well that’s that,” is all she says, dusting her hands by clapping them over Cora’s head, ignorant of the way Cora flinches at the sound. “Good riddance.”

“Talia,” Dad says, a bit reproachfully. Mom stares him down and he sighs. “Good riddance,” he echoes, ushering her into the house.

“I miss her,” Cora whispers. “She didn’t hug me.”

Derek throws an arm around her shoulder and squeezes gently. “She hugged me so I could share with you,” he says. “It’s why she held on so long. So I’d have enough for both of us.”

Cora stares at him like she knows he’s lying, but she’s almost six and he’s almost ten so he wins all arguments automatically unless Mom and Dad are nearby.

“She’ll come back for us when she can,” he says. It’s not a promise because Derek doesn’t make promises. Promises are weird games with Peter. Cora sticks her thumb in her mouth and suckles it gently. Her way of accepting what he says.

He nods confidently. “Until then, we’ll just have to survive on our own. You and me against Mom and Dad and Uncle Peter.”

Definitely against Uncle Peter, Derek thinks with a shudder, looking up to find Peter still staring at him, a brow cocked in the way that means, ‘follow me.’

“Go play in your room,” he says to Cora, and she nods. He isn’t sure if she knows what Peter does, but Derek vows he’ll never let Peter hurt her the way he hurts him. It’s the only promise he has ever made and he intends to keep it.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work does not have a beta. I am currently seeking one. Contact me at my [Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/) if interested.


	2. One

~ * ~

The bells above the entrance ring and Lydia looks up from her nails. Just her luck: finally get a perfect coat on and a customer shows up.

Bubbly, perky, she reminds herself as she straightens on her stool. She notices Allison doing the same at her own register. A moment later she sees why.

Derek Hale—the awkwardly hot guy with buckteeth and big ears in their grade at school—walks around the pie display. He looks—hot!—and uncomfortable. Derek is one of those people admired from afar. He has his group of friends at school that he eats lunch with, but during the summer, he’s nowhere to be found. Rumor has it he goes around mowing lawns for the elderly and disabled. Lydia would sigh if it weren’t so unbecoming of someone of her social caliber. And if he weren’t so close to her right now.

He glances around, eyes sliding from display case to display case, staring at cookies, tarts, and sweet rolls. Finally, he spots Lydia’s register and heads right toward her. In her peripheral, she sees Allison slump.

“What can I help you find today?” she chirps as soon as Derek stops moving.

“Are you still hiring?” he mumbles.

Lydia purses her lips. She has been told to hand out applications only if Mrs. Stilinski has preapproved the candidate. But, it’s Derek Hale!

Under Allison’s disapproving stare—that goody-two-shoes—she digs a blank application from the bottom drawer and hands it to him with a flourish.

“Borrow your pen?” he asks, accepting the stapled form hesitantly despite asking for it. Lydia checks her nails, grimacing at the smudged tips and gouges missing from her fresh coat of polish. She shrugs it off and whips out a feather-topped, purple, satin-and-sparkle pen, one that lights up when the nib is depressed.

He scowls at it but takes it anyway, their fingers brushing slightly as the pen changes hands. Lydia jerks away, imagining she felt a spark pass between them. She reminds herself that she’s trying to win back Jackson, that she isn’t truly available. Then, she decides she doesn’t care. Jackson loses this round.

Well, until they talk later. Jackson promised to give her a ride home tonight, to discuss whether they should stay broken-up or not.

Derek, for his part, grunts and half-whispers, “Thank you,” as he, the pen, and the application make their way to the tables by the back wall where the other workers play stupid card games when it is slow and all their work is done. From Lydia’s register, she can watch Derek filling out the application, while Allison, at her register, has to look at the curved mirrors mounted near the ceiling in the corners of the stores.

Allison abandons her register, hurrying toward Lydia, already lecturing her about following Mrs. S.’s rules. Lydia ignores her, watching as Derek bends over the paper, light from the pen flashing over his serious features as he neatly writes his information.

“You’re going to get in so much trouble,” Allison predicts, wagging her finger.

“Excuse you,” Lydia replies, haughtily. “Mrs. S. will only find out if you tell her. Look, I’ll take his application back, maybe get his number off it, and no one will be the wiser.”

Allison doesn’t look convinced, but she stops bitching and heads back to her register.

“Hey, I’m done,” Derek says suddenly, right by Lydia’s register, startling her enough that she lets out a small squeak. She turns it into a laugh and holds out her hand. Derek gives her the pen slowly. She sets it aside and extends her hand again. He sighs softly, ducking his head as he relinquishes the application.

“The phone number is my sister’s,” he says. Lydia stares at him. “I don’t have my own cell phone,” he explains sheepishly in response to her shocked expression. “Laura Hale. She knows how to get a hold of me for any interviews.”

“Oh, okay,” she finally says, smiling as wide as she can. She commends herself for not using her ‘move-along’ tone. Derek blinks at her, adopting a confused grimace, which means she might not have been as successful as she had hoped. He mutters another quiet, “Thank you,” before heading for the front door.

As soon as the bells ring to signal his departure, Lydia sweeps the application off her counter and into the trash bin tucked underneath. Allison shoots her a concerned look, but Lydia ignores her in favor of uncapping her polish to add another coat to her ruined nails.

~ * ~

Derek wheels his bicycle, walking down to the corner where he has to wait on one vehicle before he can cross the street, heading for _Emilio’s_ , a bar that doubles as a reception hall. He locks his bike around a tree, making sure it is secure before he heads to the double-door entrance.

Inside, in the dimmed lights, several couples are dancing, each moving gracefully and perfectly. If there are any flaws, Derek can’t see them. At the head of the class is Laura. Her long brown hair has been corralled into a tight bun and she is wearing a baggy black t-shirt over silver tights. She doesn’t notice him standing by the doors, watching silently, until Emilio, a Turkish immigrant and the owner of the bar comes to chase him away.

“I just need to tell her something,” Derek says, wincing as Emilio, a small man with a lot of strength, squeezes his biceps. Derek freezes before struggling to pull away, panicking slightly when Emilio’s hand constricts tighter.

“It’s okay, Emilio,” Laura says, hurrying toward them. Obligingly, Emilio lets Derek go. He surreptitiously rubs his arm.

“I just don’t want trouble with police. I no serve minors. No sir. You tell Laura and you leave. I no serve you. You tell Sheriff that, yes?”

Derek shrugs. Emilio takes it as an affirmative answer and steps back so they can have some privacy, even if it is just an illusion.

“I used your number,” Derek says quickly, aware of the couples who have stopped moving and Emilio staring at his watch. “For a job,” he clarifies. “I applied at _Kitchen Fresh_ , the bakery across the street.”

“That’s good,” Laura says, enthusiastically. Derek feels something in his chest loosen. He had been afraid that she would have decided to revoke her offer of help with his job hunt. That it still stands means a lot to him, and he hugs her to show his gratitude, a brief affair of wrapping his arms around her and barely touching her before he pulls away again. A sad look crosses her face before she wrestles a smile back onto it.

“I’m glad. I’ll let you know when they call.”

“Thank you,” he says, waving and heading for the doors. “I’ll see you at Mom and Dad’s tonight?”

Laura has settled on Monday as the night she checks on Derek and Cora at their parents’ house out in the preserve. It gives her the satisfaction of seeing that they have survived another weekend, and it means that, because she is on Beacon Hills’ city council, one night out of the month, Mom is too busy to have dinner with them. Small blessings.

“Yeah, I’ll be in late tonight. We’ll talk more then. I love you, Derek.”

He grunts in acknowledgement, unable to form the reply. It’s been years since he said it to anyone except Cora. Laura’s face turns sad again, and he can’t stand it, so he runs out into the sunshine, followed by Emilio’s last, “I no serve minors.”

He unlocks his bike and walks it around the corner, heading homeward. On the outskirts of town, he settles onto the seat, pumping the pedals as hard as he can, just to build his speed so he can coast down the steep hill before their house.

Derek is not looking forward to the frosty reception he’s been getting from his parents for the past year and a half. At least Laura had promised to be there tonight, so he has that glimmer of hope for now.

~ * ~

The flour is everywhere. Claudia cranes her neck, and yep, they even managed to hit the ceiling. How her son managed to do that is beyond her.

A quick glance around shows the boys are hiding in the back room, probably waiting for her to start yelling.

It is tempting to give in to the impulse. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last time either.

Still, she promised her husband that she would work on her temper if he would work on his drinking. So, she closes her eyes and counts to ten. When she opens them again, her son and his friend stand before her, twin sheepish looks on their flour-dusted faces.

“Explain,” she says as calmly as she can. Both boys begin speaking at the same time, their voices rising in volume as they try to outdo each other, gesturing wildly at the empty flour bag half-stuffed into a trash bin and the piles of the white powder clinging to nearly every surface.

Claudia raises her hand and they fall silent. “One at a time, starting with Scott.”

“Oh, come on!” her son exclaims, turning to his friend. “Why do you always get to explain first?”

Claudia raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles knows why he doesn’t get to go first.

Scott turns to the remaining fifty-pound bag of floor that just came on the supply truck. “One of the bags was opened when Danny and Jackson brought it up. When we noticed it, we decided to check with them and see if they knew when it’d been opened.”

“Jackson thought we were accusing him of purposefully sabotaging the bag,” Stiles jumps in, and Scott nods in agreement. “He said if we didn’t trust him, he’d really give us something to use.”

“Then, Mrs. S.,” Scott says, pointing at the emptied bag again, “he started tossing handfuls _everywhere_.”

“We were looking for a broom and dustpan when you walked in.”

Claudia looks at the helter-skelter footprints running through the mess on the floor. Now that the boys have mentioned what they were doing, it seems obvious to her that they are telling the truth. At least, Scott can’t lie to save his life, and when Scott gets caught, Stiles tumbles after him, too.

She sends her husband a silent thank you.

Then, she claps her hands together, startling both of them. “At least he did it when you were just prepping for tomorrow,” she says. “Well, let’s get to it: start cleaning it up. I’ll go talk to Jackson about it.”

The panicked glance Stiles and Scott share speaks more of the trouble Jackson is in than their own guilt. She’s seen so many of those looks that it makes it easy to tell when they’re covering for each other and when they really are telling the truth.

So much for Jackson then. A good kid, bit of a bully. She had been hoping to redeem him, maybe hammer some skills into him. Oh well.

She leaves the kitchen, stepping out into the body of the bakery. She heads for Lydia’s register. She and Jackson have a bit of a thing together, and if he is still on the premises, he will be hanging around, waiting for her to get off work.

Surprisingly, Jackson isn’t there. It’s just Lydia closing out her register, meticulously counting and recounting the bills.

“Lydia,” Claudia says when she feels the girl is done with her nightly ritual. She had thought Lydia was aware she was there. Her small shriek says otherwise. “Sorry, honey,” she apologizes.

“It’s okay, Mrs. S.,” Lydia assures her. She bundles the bills and pulls out the rolls of coins, leaving the loose change for tomorrow. “Hey, you haven’t seen Jackson around, have you? He promised to give me a ride home tonight.”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you know anything about the flour in the kitchen?”

Lydia blinks at her. “No, I don’t. What happened?”

“Apparently one of the bags was open when it got here. I need to confirm with either Jackson or Danny before I send a damaged product report to the stocking company.”

“Well, Danny’s already gone—his grandma picked him up early.”

Claudia knows this already. Danny doesn’t do anything without making sure it’s okay with her first. She sighs, patting Lydia’s shoulder as she goes to check on Allison, who is a little more fastidious than Lydia and slower at counting.

The front register has already been closed out, the money bag sticking out of the back of Allison’s apron as she finishes wiping down her counter and the nearby display cases.

She also startles when Claudia calls her name.

“No, I haven’t seen Jackson,” Allison says to her inquiry. “He’s usually watching Lydia close out, isn’t he?”

“Yes, well, he’s not there today.” Oh, that boy is doing a jig well across the line. She’s half-tempted to fire him over text messaging and doubly glad the only two kids with keys are Stiles and Danny.

“Allison, let me know if anyone comes in asking for an application, will you?”

The girl freezes, eyes wide, mouth falling open. A moment later, she shakes her head, as if freeing herself from bonds, smiling with nothing but trepidation.

“Derek Hale asked about an application this afternoon. Would he be good?”

Talia Hale’s middle child, Claudia muses. Laura, the eldest, is a hard worker. Derek is very similar to his sister. The only difference is he smiles less; he isn’t as approachable.

But, Claudia and Talia have known each other for a long time. For her friend’s sake, she is willing to give Derek a chance. Hopefully, he is less temperamental than Jackson has proven himself to be.

“Did he leave a callback number?” she asks, and Allison glances away, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Not exactly,” she says quietly.

“‘Not exactly’?” Claudia repeats.

“He, um, he filled out an application already. Lydia has it, I think.” Allison looks like she wants to throw up.

“Oh,” is all Claudia can manage. She goes back to Lydia’s register to find the girl hiding underneath the counter, Derek’s application on her lap. Wordlessly, she hands it to Claudia, who glances at it with an appreciative eye: all those calligraphy lessons have paid off.

Next to the number at the top of the page is Laura’s name. Apparently, Derek isn’t with the times and doesn’t have his own cell phone. Well, she will still give him a chance. After all, that is why she runs the bakery: to give those who need it a helping hand.

Claudia heads into the office, accepting both girls’ money bags as they leave for the night, Allison offering Lydia the ride Jackson was supposed to provide.

A few minutes later, after she has double-checked the money and stashed it in the safe hidden behind a family portrait from Christmas eight years ago, Stiles pokes his head into the office and lets her know he and Scott have finished both the prep and the cleaning and are heading out now.

Claudia blows him a kiss that he ducks.

Alone at last, she punches in Laura’s number. It rings four times before it is answered by a hesitant and distinctly male voice.

“Hello?” Derek Hale all but whispers.

~ * ~

“Hello?” Derek says again into the silence. A lady on the other end clears her throat.

“Hello, yes. Derek? This is Claudia Stilinski. You submitted an application today?”

Derek’s eyes widen. He hadn’t expected this quick of a callback. “Yes,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. Laura flashes him a worried smile. She means he sounds angry or constipated. Derek’s money is on constipated. “I did.” He nods too, even though only Laura is there to see. She grins, a little less worried.

“Well, would you be able to come in tomorrow at 7:00 for an interview?”

Laura waves frantically by her ear. He ignores her, cupping his hand around the phone and almost whispering, “Yes, I can,” into it.

Mrs. Stilinski laughs, breathy and fuzzy with some static. “Okay,” she says, and Derek swears he hears relief in her voice. “See you tomorrow at 7:00.”

“Yes,” he says again. She hangs up with a soft good night, but Derek can barely hear it over the pounding of his heart. Numbly, he hands the phone back to Laura.

“Well?” she demands, and he glances at her. She sounds angrier than she looks. When he remains silent, she smacks his arm. He glares at her, rubbing the hurt area. “Come on, Derek.”

“I have an interview tomorrow at 7:00,” he finally says when it looks like she is going to hit him again.

She squeals and claps her hands. “I’ll come get you, take you in.”

Derek shakes his head. “I’ll be fine on my bike,” he says. “Besides, most of the other workers are too young to drive, so there’s a bike rack behind the bakery.” He only knows about the rack because he uses the alley as a shortcut to get from the Pattersons’ property to the Folsoms’ on Thursdays, when he cleans their pools.

“Derek, you live three miles from town. What if it rains? What if a car hits you?”

“Why would a car hit me?” he asks, looking down at his dark t-shirt and black jeans. He frowns at her and shrugs. “Anyway, we live in California—it’s more likely to burn us to death than rain on us.” At least, right now during the summer months it is. Come late November through early March and they will be in their rainy season.

“I’m taking you in and that’s that.” Laura grips his shoulder, squeezing rhythmically. He leans into the touch briefly, letting her run her other hand over his back. He isn’t three though, and all touches feel…skeevy.

Derek shudders, remembering a different hand brushing down his back, curling over his ass and pinching him. He shoves at Laura until she lets him go.

“I can ride my bike,” he says to distract her from the pinched look on her face when he paces to the other side of his room, leaving her sitting on his bed alone.

He angles his head so he can stare out his window at the rising moon. In a couple of days, it will be full.

“You know, whatever’s wrong, you can tell me, right?” Laura says softly. Derek ignores her. She sighs. He hears her stand up to grab her purse. He glares at his reflection in the window as she unzips the inside pocket.

“I don’t want it,” he says when she touches his hand, the texture of a folded bill sticking on his palm. “I don’t need it.”

“Liar,” Laura responds, a little fondly. They both let it lie when it falls to the floor. “Well, it’s getting late, and I need to be heading out.” Laura pauses at the door, and Derek watches her in the window as several looks cross her face until it settles into a blank, emotionless mask. “I’ll see you tomorrow when you tell me all about your new job.”

“It’s just an interview,” he reminds her. He swallows hard. He has always had trouble with people, too shy to stand up for himself against adults, and aloof from his peers. Lately, it has been so much worse, and he knows he is going to panic all night.

Laura seems to sense his apprehension, reaching out a hand even though she is nowhere near enough to touch him again. “You could always stay with me for a night or two. We’d love to have you.”

Derek grunts, focusing on the moon again so she won’t be able to see the tears blurring his vision. He knows Laura and Benjamin would let him stay with them for as long as he wants. But, it isn’t up to him. It’s Mom and Dad’s decision.

Laura sighs again, and he hears her close his bedroom door. It’s not her fault, he reminds himself as he picks up the bill, unsurprised to find that it is a hundred-dollar note, and stuffing it into his front pocket. She doesn’t know. No one knows.

He has had ample opportunity to speak about what it is that bothers him, but the time is never right, or he can’t bring himself to mention it. So, he only has himself to blame. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Downstairs, he can hear Laura saying her goodbyes and Mom asking, “So soon, darling?”

Maybe he should stay with his sister and her boyfriend tonight. He doesn’t want the interrogation Mom always subjects him to after Laura leaves. It should not be a tough decision, but his pride makes it harder.

He clenches a fist, listening to Laura sing a lullaby into Cora’s tape recorder. Cora likes to analyze the different octaves and mimic Laura’s voice when she can’t visit.

Dad and Peter give Laura advice on cars, like she hasn’t been sneaking down to _Dean’s Garage_ since before she became emancipated, and boys, like Benjamin is still a phase even after almost six years. Then they move onto jobs, and Derek stifles a snort into his hand. Laura has a job already.

The steps creak under someone’s weight, and Derek realizes that he hasn’t been hearing Mom talking downstairs.

He throws himself on the bed, pulling the covers over his head and rolling so that he is facing the wall. Mom has never come this quickly before. Laura hasn’t even left yet.

Mom opens his door and calls his name quietly. Outside, Laura’s car door slams and the engine turns over.

“Derek,” Mom says more forcefully. He turns over, keeping the blanket tight around his head. He wonders if he could suffocate himself like this. It might make his life easier.

“Derek,” Mom says one more time, ripping the blanket off him. “I know you’re disappointed, but you have to pick yourself up. You are still a member of this family. As such, you will join us for family functions, including supper.”

Derek had made sure he had been busy tonight because Laura always picks a fight when she sees how little he eats under their parents’ watchful eyes. All Mom sees is his disobedience. Of course.

Supper is usually cold questions and colder glares. Even Monday nights with Laura are hardly better. Every bite he takes tastes like dust and is another dollar wasted on him. He has taken to either outright avoiding eating at home or sliding his precise portions to Cora when no one is looking.

He opens his mouth to try to explain, to try to find the words to use. Before he speaks, Mom’s eyes narrow. Derek snaps his mouth shut, knowing she will not tolerate his ‘excuses’—he is tired of fighting about his words too.

“What is that?” Mom demands, one neatly manicured finger stretching out to dip into his pocket. He can’t help the reflex he has that makes him scramble away from her, back hitting the wall as he kicks out.

She recoils, a barely concealed look of fury simmering on her face. She pulls away from the bed, and in her hand is the bill Laura left.

Oh, Derek thinks in disappointment. She means money again. He tugs the blanket over his body again, hunkering down as Mom’s anger and disgust grows more palpable. They both stay silent, staring at each other.

Finally, Derek whispers, “I was going to give it back.” He doesn’t see the slap coming; Mom is too fast for that; but he feels it in the sting of his cheek, and the sudden tears that spring to his eyes. Mom’s face is cold, mouth a thin, sharp line, eyes hard.

“Don’t lie to me,” she says, her voice controlled. She straightens the bill, smoothing away the folds. “It wasn’t enough that you were wasting the money your father and I entrusted to you. Now you’re stealing from your own sister? Derek, if you don’t apologize to Laura tonight, I don’t know what we’re going to do about you.”

He stays quiet, hand pressed to his cheek, feeling the heat of it in his palm, the flare of pain when he presses a little too hard. Mom sighs and leaves the room. She doesn’t close the door, and Derek hears Dad ask her something in a low voice.

He doesn’t wait for them to come back. He grabs a jacket Laura bought him last fall when the one he’d had since he was eight busted when he tried to pull it on. The pockets are deep, and he shoves them full of tiny granola bars and icky-flavored hard candies the free clinic hands out on Thursdays.

His school bag is barely big enough to hold his boots, a pair of gloves rolled in a hat, two pairs of socks and boxer shorts, and three t-shirts. He stuffs a notebook he uses to record his work schedule and a couple of pens from local businesses into the front pouch, zipping everything shut and pulling it over his shoulder.

He closes his door quickly and quietly, shoving his desk chair, a straight-backed dining room relic in need of refurnishing under the knob. From the shelf in the bare closet, he pulls down the old peanut butter jar he keeps all the money he earns after costs from his jobs. Cleaning pools and mowing lawns is handy enough, and in just under a summer and a half, he has nearly nine hundred dollars saved up.

But, when he opens the jar, all he finds is a note from Cora promising to pay him back. She even took the medallion Grandpa made for Grandma the year he was born. It was given to him for his twelfth birthday.

Derek really feels like crying right now. Ever since Laura sought and received emancipation, Mom and Dad have been treating him like he’s the next defector, the traitor of the family. He growls in frustration and hurls the jar at the wall. It bounces off and clatters across the floor, unbroken.

“Derek?” Dad calls, and the handle twists sharply and the door bows inward only to be stopped by the chair, which creaks loudly, protesting the movement. Derek scrambles to the window, shoving it up and crawling out onto the roof. He tosses the backpack onto the ground just as the chair breaks apart as his parents burst into the room. He doesn’t stop to see if either of them is following him. He runs to the edge of the roof and launches himself off, tucking and rolling to disperse his weight as he lands. He still comes down awkwardly on his ankle, and it buckles under him.

“Derek!” Mom shouts, and it is so loud, it sounds like she’s right behind him.

He pants through the pain, gathering up his backpack and limping to his bike. No time to waste, to make sure he’s okay. It takes two tries to get the kickstand up and start pedaling. He growls through the pain of what he hopes is just a sprained ankle.

Peter’s car roars to life, tires squealing as it lurches after him. His bike is not an off-road bike, but it is still more maneuverable than the dinky hatchback Peter insists on keeping.

It does not take long for Derek to outrun Peter’s car, especially since he doesn’t keep to the road, and Peter has no idea where Derek is going.

Once he is certain he is safe enough, he hops off the bike, the pain too great to keep pedaling through, and starts walking to town. His ankle throbs with every step and his backpack’s straps dig into his shoulders.

Three miles won’t take long to walk, even injured as he is. More daunting though is finding somewhere he can safely spend the night. Laura’s apartment is out; he is positive Mom or Dad will have the place staked out. Benjamin’s parents’ house is also a no-go since they know he could go there too.

The school, empty for the summer but with a window permanently cracked open in the Lacrosse coach’s office, will have to do. And, if he can get into the locker rooms, he can take a quick shower before his interview. Really, he has no better plan. It is not an altogether unfamiliar feeling.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still seeking a beta. Drop a line at my [Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/) if interested.


	3. Two

~ * ~

“Dude,” Stiles whispers to Scott when Stiles’ mom unlocks the door at 6:00 and waves them and Danny into the back room. Allison and Lydia will be here in half an hour for their duties. “Did you hear? Jackson’s already got another job!”

“Seriously?” Scott stares at him. “How does that work, leave one job and the next day have another? And how do you even know?” He narrows his eyes at Stiles, and Stiles glares back at him.

“My mom called him to see about the two-week thing, and Jackson’s dad said he’s got a job at the bike store next door.”

“Seriously?” Scott says again. Danny shoots them an annoyed glance before he heads to the front to collect the wet floor signs from last night. “Allison told me we’ve already got another applicant.”

Stiles feels his eyebrows rising in surprise. Mom hasn’t even had them make up hiring signs yet. “Oh, yeah? She say who?”

Scott glances around, but it’s just Stiles and him in the kitchen. “It’s Derek Hale,” he whispers anyway.

Stiles chokes on his suddenly desert-dry throat. The Sahara could not be more arid. “Derek Hale?” he manages to mutter. “ _The_ Derek Hale? The one Coach is always trying to get on the team? _That_ Derek Hale?”

“Yes, _that_ Derek Hale. Do you know any others?” Scott looks exasperated, and Stiles offers a pseudo-apologetic shrug.

“So, when’s he coming?”

“She didn’t say.” Scott grabs an apron, tossing another to Stiles. “I was kinda hoping your mom would tell us when we got here.”

“By the way, boys,” Stiles’ mom says from the doorway, startling them both, “the new hire will be here at 7:00. Let me know when he shows up.” She sweeps away, leaving them to flip on the lights in the kitchen and turn on the large ovens.

Trays of rolls, donuts, and breads are pulled put to defrost. By 6:30, everything is done, and Stiles heads to the front room to let Lydia and Allison in while Danny starts bringing out things like the large tubs of icing for the donuts and the cooling racks.

Lydia and Allison start making the day’s signs while Scott and Stiles work at baking the breads and frying the donuts. Both girls grab aprons from the kitchen, Allison pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Scott’s mouth while Lydia ignores Stiles’ attempt to talk to her.

Then, Stiles puts on a small pot of coffee for the employees while Scott does the large ones for customers.

By 6:45, the registers are open and everyone is clustered around Lydia’s counter, munching on fresh cinnamon rolls slathered in Persian frosting and sipping at thinned-coffee. Even Danny, ‘organic only,’ takes a second roll.

Five ‘til, someone taps on the front window, startling all of them. Lydia hops off her stool and runs to the door. She comes back leading Derek Hale, heading for Mom’s office. Stiles stares at him as he passes.

His face is pale and drawn, unshaven—and how unfair is it that Derek is in the grade above him at school and can grow enough facial hair for it to be noticeable that he didn’t have a morning date with a razor? He limps heavily, favoring his right leg. His hair is wet, short strands sticking up all over his head like he keeps dragging his hands through it.

His clothes look normal enough, a dark blue t-shirt and black jeans with dirty sneakers.

“Quick,” Lydia says, hurrying back to them. “We open in less than two minutes!”

Allison runs to turn flip the sign from closed to open while Scott and Stiles race to turn on the lights. Danny carries their tray of half-eaten pastries and still-full cups back to the kitchen.

Already, a couple of customers have flitted in, just waiting for the door to be unlocked for business before they swoop over the sweet rolls, picking through the selection and grabbing cups of coffee on their way to the back tables. These regulars always come in, and it’s Lydia’s job to mark them down and remind them to pay at either register before they leave.

A few customers later and Scott drags Stiles back to the kitchens so they can make pies for tomorrow. Without Jackson sneering and making his contempt for them well-known, conversation flows steadily—not that he ever really impeded it before. Time passes pleasantly enough although Stiles keeps an eye and ear cocked for Derek’s inevitable appearance.

By the time the pies are ready to go in the flash-freezer, he has all but forgotten about the interloper.

~ * ~

Derek shakes Mrs. Stilinski’s hand before she starts asking him questions like, how much can he lift? (Derek has never weight-lifted in his life but he can carry a fifty-pound bag of fertilizer for over twenty yards); how old is he? (He is fifteen but will be sixteen on his next birthday). The questions blur, but he thinks that just might be because he is starting to shake.

She asks for a copy of his most recent school grades, his current work schedule, a note from his doctor regarding his physical fitness. The list goes on, and Derek stares wide-eyed at the sticky note she writes it on and hands him. He didn’t realize he needed so many documents to work a ‘legitimate’ job.

Mrs. Stilinski seems annoyed by the time they get to the tour of the facilities. Barely contained sighs and side-glares. He walks as quickly as he can, trying to pretend he isn’t limping as badly as he is. It’s just a sprain.

They start the tour with Mrs. Stilinski’s office. Her snappish, “Follow me,” burrows into his brain and he wonders if she knows he ran away from home last night.

He recalls his mom having tea with Mrs. Stilinski back before she became a City Council member, but he doesn’t know if they are still good enough friends for Mrs. Stilinski to receive news about him.

They head to the entrance, and Mrs. Stilinski shows him the signs with the normal operating hours. She says he will have to be here by 6:00 most mornings. Derek nods instead of answering verbally and sees Mrs. Stilinski’s eyes shutter, like she’s trying to hide how upset she is. He vows to do better, following along as they  dodge customers on the way past the first register, manned by the dark haired clerk, past the display cases, already much emptier than they had been yesterday, past the second register with the red-head who shared her pen with him. He thinks both girls are in his grade, but he doesn’t pay much attention to the classmates he isn’t friends with. It’s easier that way, not to mention he doesn’t feel he fits in well anyway.

Mrs. Stilinski tells him that it will be part of his duties at night to wipe down the display cases and to mop the floor. She grips his shoulder to steer him toward the kitchens and he flinches visibly when she makes contact, drawing back from her. The red-head ducks her head so he can’t see her expression, but he imagines it to be one of either curiosity or pity. He doesn’t need either.

The tour continues with explanations on everything, from cleaning schedules to placements of helpful objects, like the first aid kit.

The longer they go on, the harder it is for him to keep up. He wavers on his feet, the right one throbbing while the left feels almost numb in comparison.

He stumbles after Mrs. Stilinski, wondering if she would even notice if he collapsed.

 Apparently the answer is yes, she would notice. Derek tries to right himself but ends up being balanced under Mrs. Stilinski’s arm while she takes him to the kitchen.

This is not how Derek had hoped his day would go.

~ * ~

“Dude,” Scott says randomly when he and Stiles are working on cookies for later this afternoon.

“What?” Stiles snaps irritably when Scott doesn’t continue. Cookies are his least favorite thing to do at the bakery because he has to cut each one uniformly and he can only do that for a few minutes before his ADHD flares up and he has to go run around the back alley where he and Scott keep their bikes.

He looks up from rolling sugar cookie dough to find his best friend frozen, staring at the doorway. Stiles turns too, finding Mom standing there, watching them work. Behind her, leaning on the actual doorjamb, his face pinched in fear or anger, is Derek. His hands are clenched into fists and he is shivering as if he is cold.

“Stiles, are there any rolls or coffee left?” Mom’s tone scares him; it’s pitched low, and he notices that she has a hand hovering over Derek’s arm.

“Um,” he says, numbly, shaking himself and wiping off his hands as he goes to the small employee fridge in the corner. He pulls out a wrapped cinnamon roll, offering it to Mom.

She smiles distractedly, taking it and leading Derek back toward her office. Stiles notices Derek’s limp is worse, and he winces in sympathy when Derek stumbles a bit.

“Hey,” Scott says softly, and Stiles turns back to him. “He’ll be okay. Your mom’s good.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, glancing at the empty space left and then sat his station. “Yeah,” he repeats with more conviction. “He’ll be fine. Mom will make sure of it.”

“Wonder why he’s limping,” Scott says innocently.

“Probably none of our business,” Stiles replies, stabbing a plastic drinking glass into the dough to punch out perfect circles. He winces at the forced nonchalance in his tone.

Scott shoots him a crooked grin. “I know that phrase,” he says. “It means it’s totally our business, isn’t it?”

“No,” Stiles insists, ramming the glass into the dough harder than necessary. Scott’s grin gets bigger. Stiles sighs before nodding. “Yeah, it’s our business.”

“Should we follow him tonight?”

Stiles contemplates his answer as he moves the punched cookies onto a wax-paper covered sheet and re-rolls the dough so he can make more. Scott waits patiently, stirring the egg mixture they will brush onto the soft pretzels while they bake.

“Maybe,” Stiles finally decides. At Scott’s incredulous look, he shrugs. Depends on when we get out of here and when Derek gets off work—if he even can work, that is.”

Scott nods in agreement and they fall silent.

~ * ~

“Talia,” John Stilinski says, not without some surprise. Yes, Talia Hale is his wife’s second-best friend in Beacon Hills, but that doesn’t mean he sees her often. The Hales tend to keep to themselves despite all they do for the town.

He closes the folder he’s working on, some lowlife drug dealer targeting teens, possibly a teen himself. He could use a break anyway.

“What can I do for you?”

Talia looks lost. He has only seen her that way twice before, once when Laura demanded emancipation, and the second when she was nearly granted it.

As it was, Talia still had to stand in court and sign away her parental rights to the Votskys, a science teacher and an accountant, and parents of Laura Hale’s current boyfriend, his own deputy, Benjamin Votsky.

He examines Talia carefully, noting her cobbled together outfit of a wrongly buttoned purple flannel shirt over a thin white tank top, wrinkled gray slacks, and atrocious orange flip-flops on her feet. There is dried dirt and grass all over her shoes and feet. Her hair is loose in tangled waves, and there is a knitted pink hair tie on her wrist. He imagines she just pulled it down to attempt to corral it into a semblance of normal.

“Did something happen?” he asks softly. He knows Laura is doing okay. Votsky likes to give updates on ‘his girl’ to rub in the other, single, deputies’ faces. That leaves Derek or Cora for the kids. Or it could be her husband James or her brother Peter.

Talia finally shakes herself staring at him with an almost confused expression. She sets her jaw, a muscle jumping as she clenches her teeth. “I need to report a missing person,” she grits out. John thinks the only reason her voice doesn’t shake is because of how tight she is keeping her jaw locked.

“It’s Derek,” she continues. “He ran away last night around 9:00. We’ve been looking for him, but we can’t find him.”

This is not something John ever feels prepared to handle, but it is his job. He sighs, scrubbing at his face. “You might not like the questions I have to ask,” he warns her. For a brief moment Talia crumples, her face collapsing into grief, before she steels herself, straightening her shoulders and nodding.

“Ask anything,” she says. “I want to find my son.”

“Why did Derek run?”

“I don’t rightly know.” She scrapes a hand through her hair, leaving it even more tangled. “It could be many things.” She pauses and catches John’s eye, holding his gaze even as it grows uncomfortable. “I hit him last night, and then he ran.”

She keeps talking, something about Derek taking a bag, but John doesn’t really hear her. Never in all the years he has known her has she raised a hand to anyone, despite how deserving they may have been. In fact, she has been the strongest voice against violence of any kind.

“Why did you hit him?” Vaguely, he is aware he interrupted her. She drops her eyes to her lap where her hands lay, fingers entwined. “Talia?”

“I thought he had stolen something,” she says, almost too soft to hear. “From his sister. I reacted without thinking.” She swallows hard, the sound of it sticking. The gentleman in John thinks he should offer her a drink, but she’s still talking, so it is easier to sit back and listen. “We talked to Laura, had her keep an eye out for him. She told us the truth, that she’d given it to him.” Talia’s eyes shine with tears, and her breath shudders when she inhales.

John reaches across his desk to offer her a tissue from the box he keeps on the corner. “I’ll find him,” he says. “I promise.” He can’t help but wonder, though, why Derek chose to run after only the one hit. He taps the desk to get Talia’s attention. “I need to know why he would run. I know it’s—”

“I haven’t exactly been the mother Derek needs, I’ll admit that,” Talia interrupts him. She wipes her eyes before crumpling the tissue into a small ball that she worries between her fingers, shredding pieces to scatter over her lap. “I’ve been so angry at him that I let it cloud my judgment.” She reaches down to grab a bag from the floor by her chair and pulls out a photo album. She flips it open, one finger tapping a floppy-haired, too-big teethed grade-schooler smiling brightly. John only just recognizes the subject.

“Derek,” he says softly, studying it, noting the sparkle in his eyes, the almost ruddiness of his cheeks. He looks to be about seven or eight in the picture. Possibly a school portrait. Talia picks a different page, and John almost recoils at the changes in the boy. His face, once cheerful and open, is pale and drawn, cheeks hallowing like he’s sucking on his tongue. He’s maybe a year or so older than the previous picture.

It is so obvious that something happened to that child. He looks up, mouth opening.

“No,” Talia says quickly. “I don’t know what prompted the change. All I know is he stopped being my child, no matter how much I loved him.”

~ * ~

By the time Derek has finished the too-sweet cinnamon roll, Mrs. Stilinski has called in favor of her friend, Mrs. McCall, a nurse who works at the free clinic on Thursdays. Derek pretends he doesn’t notice when she narrows her eyes at him.

Although it was embarrassing to have almost fainted from low blood sugar, it actually feels nice to be sitting on the chair in front of Mrs. Stilinski’s desk, foot extended onto the seat of the other chair.

Mrs. McCall’s hands are gentle when she pulls off his sneaker and sock. Mrs. Stilinski draws in a shocked breath when his ankle is exposed. Derek has a hard time looking at it himself. The skin is purple and swollen, and when Mrs. McCall flexes it, he can’t help a sharp cry of pain at the movement.

Immediately, Mrs. McCall lets him go. Mrs. Stilinski sets her hand on his shoulder, in comfort, he is certain, but he tenses and flinches and she pulls back quickly.

“Well, Mr. Hale,” Mrs. McCall says, “I think I need to see you at the clinic today.”

“Today is Tuesday,” he protests. He can’t afford the clinic, even if Cora hadn’t taken his money. He reaches for his sock, overbalancing and accidently rolling his injured foot on the floor as he tries to right himself.

He does not remember blacking out, but he comes back suddenly, on his back on the floor with both Mrs. Stilinski and Mrs. McCall leaning over him.

“I’m okay,” he manages to gasp out past the panic and pain squeezing his lungs. They exchange a look that says they don’t believe him. He glares as best he can.

“I’m getting the boys,” Mrs. Stilinski announces. “They can take Derek to the clinic. Melissa, make sure they’re all okay. I think they may be plotting something.”

Mrs. McCall sighs, a gust of air that brushes over his face. He holds his breath. “I know our boys well enough, Claudia.” She eyes Derek again, before helping him back up into the chair, his leg extended so he doesn’t move his foot again. “I think I’ll borrow Danny only. He should be able to help Derek keep the weight off his foot. _You_ can keep the double-trouble minions.”

He looks up from studying his hands, clenched and still shaking like he’s cold or something, to find the cooks staring at him through the open doorway. Both women continue making plans to get Danny, the stock room clerk, his brain supplies from the earlier tour, to help half-carry him out to Mrs. McCall’s vehicle. They haven’t noticed the boys, or just don’t care.

One of the cooks, the one with a bristling buzz cut well on its way to re-growth, waves at him. Derek resists the urge to bare his teeth and growl. Barely. He only checks himself because they are not who he is mad at. They don’t deserve his wrath.

“Dude,” the first cook whispers to the other at a volume that isn’t exactly quiet. “Look, his foot’s all fuc—messed up.”

“Yeah, Stiles,” the second cook almost snaps, in that same obvious whisper. “I can see that.”

“Scott, go find Danny, please,” Mrs. McCall says over her shoulder. The second cook, Scott, nods sharply, pulling away from Stiles after patting him on the back.

Derek envies the way Stiles doesn’t flinch, the way it was a natural motion for Scott, for Stiles. He returns his gaze to his hands, finding that he is digging his mails into his palms. They are clenched that tightly. He forces himself to relax, smoothing his palms over his knees, trying to soothe away the sting.

“Also,” Mrs. McCall hisses by Derek’s head, hand hovering over his cheek. Mrs. Stilinski nods, and still standing in the doorway, Stiles clears his throat.

“Uh, maybe,” he stammers, “and this is totally just a suggestion, but you could probably just ask him what happened?”

“I must have banged it when I hurt my ankle,” Derek offers quickly. He doesn’t need any more trouble with Mom and Dad, and allegations of child abuse are the worst. He remembers the old sheriff talking with him about why Laura wanted to leave the family. He still isn’t sure if the man believed him when he said Mom and Dad weren’t physically abusive but it still felt like a minefield to live with them.

He doesn’t know if anyone would believe him now either.

Mrs. McCall pins him with a glare that means she knows he is lying about the origin of his bruise. He can feel himself flushing under her gaze. “It’s not that bad,” he mumbles.

He sees it coming, watches as she reaches out to cup his chin and turn his head so she can further examine the bruise on his cheek. He flinches, pulling away violently. The chair tips over, sending him sprawling. Thankfully, he lands on his back, feet kicked out and relatively unharmed. Mrs. McCall stares down at him with a mixture of shock and pity on her face. Her mouth hangs open like she has just lost what she was about to say.

It is at this time that Scott returns with Danny following him.

Silently, Danny leans down so Derek can throw an arm over his shoulder and pull himself upright. Once he is standing by himself, he tests his foot by setting it flat on the floor.

“Derek,” Mrs. McCall says warningly, and he jerks it up. It makes him wobble worryingly and Danny ducks back under his arm. “I’m sorry,” she says to Mrs. Stilinski, “I don’t think he will be able to work for a while.”

Derek glares down at the floor, like it’s to blame for his current predicament instead of Mom and Dad chasing him off the roof last night. He hops when Danny prompts him.

“Hey,” Danny whispers, tightening his grip on Derek when he stumbles over the raised sill leaving Mrs. Stilinski’s office. “You okay, man?”

Derek doesn’t answer, too busy concentrating on the hop-shuffle step they have going. He can feel the sweat pouring off his body as Danny maneuvers him through the kitchen and into the backroom of the bakery. Stiles runs in front of them, throwing open the doors so they can pass through unobstructed. In his free hand, he carries Derek’s sneaker, the sock stuffed into the toe.

“Hey,” Stiles says once Derek is settled into the front passenger seat of Mrs. McCall’s powder-blue Camry, “whatever’s going on, you can talk to us, okay?” He shares a look with Danny as he pulls back. Derek doesn’t bother to interpret it, sure that it’s another pitying glance he doesn’t need. He has been lied to like that before. He will not let them get to him.

“Seriously, you look like you’re going through hell. It’s nice to have company.”

Derek does have company, though, in Laura, the only person he trusts even if it is a little hard to actually trust her with his body, and Cora, the only person he will willingly take a bullet—or face Peter—for. He doesn’t need someone he barely knows offering him a promise that can’t be kept.

“Okay, boys,” Mrs. McCall announces loudly as she yanks open her door and climbs behind the wheel. Derek fails to hide how badly she startles him. She offers an apologetic smile before turning to Danny and Stiles. “Danny, you’re with us. I’ll drop you back at the bakery once Derek is in treatment. Stiles, go back to work, and both you and Scott, leave Derek alone.”

“Ouch, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles says, grinning. “Your lack of faith in us is disturbing.”

“Whatever.” Mrs. McCall waves him away. Danny grabs Derek’s shoe from Stiles and closes Derek’s door before sitting in the backseat.

“Relax,” she says softly when she notices that Derek is trying to calm his breathing. “We just want to help you.”

He nods, swallows thickly. He can smell her perfume, something light and flowery, and Danny’s cologne, threads of something vaguely Italian. He gags on the stench of both, feeling the weight of a hand, of two hands, brushing down his spine, curling low on his stomach, touching lower. He turns to stare out of the window just so they won’t see the tears brimming in his eyes.

No one says anything else, but he can feel them staring at him. He wants to growl at them, wants to run away again, wants to rage and rail and break something important like he feels broken. But, he knows if he speaks at all, if he lets them know what is inside him, they might just ignore him anyway, leave him festering in his own incompetency.

He bites back a sudden sob, pretends he moved his foot wrong, and lets Mrs. McCall lead him into the clinic when they park, following blindly into another fresh level of hell.

~ * ~

Having Jackson next door makes their breakup a little easier. Lydia still doesn’t quite believe that she has been dumped—cut like she is an anchor designed to make him drown. Her make-up is impeccable. She refuses to let anyone see just how she is hurting.

Still, masochistically, on her break she slips next door, watches him fiddle with a bicycle he has not idea how to fix, watches him as he acts bored and angry but looks scared.

Derek Hale had the same look on his face when she left him with Mrs. S.

She leaves after a last, long, wistful glance at Jackson. He may be an entitled asshole with issues, but he was her entitled asshole, and it will take some time to get used to the fact that he doesn’t want her anymore.

The fact that he couldn’t even bother letting her know about his quitting _Kitchen Fresh_ and being unavailable to drive her home last night was a major wake up that she thinks she needed.

When she gets back to her register, Allison disappears into the kitchen for her break, and Stiles moves to the open register.

Right now, there is only Mrs. Antonio, the half-deaf, half-blind old woman who lives kitty-corner to Lydia’s dad, wandering about the store, a tote hanging from the crook of her arm. Every so often, she pauses in her shuffle, squints at a confection, and either shakes her head or adds it to the bag. So far, she has two pies and two dozen cookies.

After Allison’s break, Scott and Stiles will make éclairs and then start the dough for tomorrow’s breads. Danny isn’t back yet, so Lydia isn’t sure if the kitchen is stocked at all. She supposes Scott and Stiles could have done it already, but they probably used their break up before she went on hers. And Allison isn’t helping now by distracting Scott.

Oh, well, Mrs. S. will tell them what she wants them to do.

“Hey,” Stiles says suddenly, and she does her best not to react to him. “Hey,” he says again, and she nods so that he will continue with whatever inane drivel he has now. He does. “Did you see the mark on Derek’s face?”

Lydia refrains from rolling her eyes. _Of course_ she saw it. She also noticed the way his eyes were tired-looking, dark half-moons beneath them. She had noticed, too, that despite being shower-fresh, Derek hadn’t been wearing any scent but his own, a slightly musky odor of nervous sweat and stale fear.

“What about it?” she whispers, one eye on Mrs. Antonio as she moves onto the brownies, a dozen and a half making it into the already-straining bag.

“Well, I think someone hit him.”

“And why would you think that?” She knows why though. The mark had looked like a hand, but it isn’t like she has a lot of experience with identifying marks left on faces unless they are hickies and she is the one leaving them.

Stiles catches her eye, something profound sparking in his gaze. “It’s a fucking handprint on his cheek,” he says, harshly. “And have you noticed how he flinches whenever someone comes close to touching him?”

Honestly, that she hadn’t noticed. She had been too upset from Jackson last night to see if the spark of attraction she had imagined was still there. Stiles glances around worriedly, almost ill-looking. Lydia wants to tell him that it will be okay, but she doesn’t want to lie to him.

It is that exact moment, the one where Lydia has her hand hovering over Stiles’ to offer him some form of comfort when Danny breezes back into the store and Allison returns from her break, her lipstick and hair a little mussed. Lydia pulls her hand back quickly, like Stiles is fire. He doesn’t appear to notice, heading off to intercept Danny and slip a box of biscotti into Mrs. Antonio’s bag.

Lydia shrugs it off. It isn’t her problem. It really isn’t. And Mrs. Antonio is approaching her register. She manages a smile that, although stiff, is still sweet enough to melt even the frostiest of hearts.

“Hello, Mrs. Antonio,” she greets cheerfully, and the old woman cracks an almost toothless grin at her. “How are you today?”

“Oh, I’m fine, the same old aches, but I’m still topside.”

“That’s always a plus,” Lydia agrees, already punching in the items as Mrs. Antonio lays them on her counter. The old woman frowns at the biscotti before adding them to the pile. Lydia recalls they were Mr. Antonio’s favorite before his stroke.

“Your total is $20.85 today,” she says, waiting patiently while Mrs. Antonio painstakingly fills out a check.

“There you are, dear.” She beams as she hands over the check written for $12 extra. When Lydia gives her the change, she hands it back with a wink and a “Don’t spend it all at once,” before she shuffles away.

Lydia holds the ten and two ones folded in her hand and wonders if she should keep them or give them to Derek.

~ * ~

John takes the most recent photograph of Derek Talia gave him and has one of the rookies print up a couple hundred ‘Have You Seen Me?’ posters. It kills him, it really does, to have to type that ‘runaway’ status. How many people will read it and decide the boy deserves what might happen to him? Although, he supposes, it is better than listing him as abducted.

Not by much, but he’ll take it if it means he can find the boy unharmed.

He gives half a dozen deputies the task of posting the flyers around town. At the post office, all three banks, the school, as many businesses as they can, especially those visited by Derek’s peers.

Once that is done, John settles in his office with a cup of coffee and the photo albums. He grabs a scratch pad of paper and one of those zero-gravity pens Stiles is fond of leaving lying all over the house and Sheriff’s Department.

It takes a little over fifty minutes to draw a timeline of Derek’s descent from a happy elementary student into a surly, scared young man.

The first ‘wrong’ photo is Derek’s ninth birthday party where a man John recognizes as a younger Peter Hale appears. He has been absent from the album for nearly six years. The way his hand sits on the boy’s shoulder and the worried, almost sick look Derek sports makes John’s gut clench uncomfortably.

He flips through the pictures again and again, watching as Derek becomes more withdrawn, as his smiles show less, his face pinched and narrow. Eyes that belie the depth of pain he is suffering. And through it all, John sees Peter standing near Derek, an arm over his shoulder, a hand around his back. Looking at him.

On the backs of the pictures, Talia has neatly printed the dates, events, and people present. It makes it easy to trace Derek’s path of sliding sideways whenever a camera appears as he becomes blurred, edges soft and unfocused as he steps away from usually Peter.

Sometimes, Derek is sandwiched between Peter and a blonde woman with a slick smile.

Something about Peter is off-putting, makes the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up. He makes a note to speak with Talia about Peter’s relationship with her son. And the woman, ‘Kate,’ according to the notes on the back.

He scribbles down another note, this time to ask Talia about Derek’s dating history. The boy is almost sixteen, but Deputy Votsky has told John that he only has an old five-speed bike. Votsky often requests permission to follow Derek on his rounds, to make sure the boy, on a well-worn bike with a heavy wagon filled with lawn care equipment, makes it from Point A to Point B.

John feels like there is a major piece of the puzzle staring him right in the face, and he just doesn’t have the insight to see it.

Briefly, he thinks of calling his son. Stiles, while not in the popular crowd—there is no way the son of the Sheriff gets invited to parties without his motives being questioned—has a means of knowing everything about everyone. He only stops himself because he starts sliding the pictures back into their designated slots, and sometimes it takes two hands just to wrestle them into place.

By the time he is done and drinking his long-cold coffee, his desk phone rings, startling him.

“This is Sheriff Stilinski,” he says into the receiver.

“John,” Melissa McCall says, grimly. “I need you to come down to collect a sexual assault kit. The victim is a minor.”

Great. Just what this day needs, John thinks, bitterly. A teenage runaway and a sexual assault victim. He asks for a name, knowing he probably won’t get one until he goes to the hospital to collect the kit. His suspicions are confirmed when Melissa stays silent.

“Melissa,” he prompts. She sighs heavily.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” she finally replies. “The victim doesn’t want to press charges, but.”

“But, you still have to document it and report it.” Now it is his turn to sigh. “There will be a deputy down in fifteen. Keep the kid calm, and we’ll get her through it.” John doesn’t do well with tears, and in his experience, victims usually cry when the kits are performed.

Melissa coughs quietly. “Victim’s a boy.”

Doesn’t mean there won’t be tears, John thinks. The wheels turn in his mind, and he hurries to grab the missing persons flyer, lifting it up to stare at Derek Hale’s unsmiling face. He feels his whole body go cold, wondering how best to ask.

Melissa takes the choice away from him when she says, “I’ve got to make a call for him now. His mom, she’ll want to know he’s safe—well, safer.”

“Melissa,” John says, around a lump threatening to choke him. “Let me talk to the Hales first. I promise we’ll get him through this.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gave it as much of a look-over as I can right now. Let me know if something absolutely wrong stands out to you. Thanks.
> 
> [My Tumblr](1989dreamer.tumblr.com).


	4. Three

~ * ~

There is a window of opportunity that presents itself when Mrs. McCall, permanent pity-eyes and thinned lips, ducks away to make a phone call. Derek doesn’t wait for her to come back.

He grabs his jeans, yanking them on and stifling a cry of pain as his foot is jarred. His t-shirt is next. He leaves the paper skirt he had been handed to wear folded neatly on the bed. Then, he limps out into the hallway, holding his breath as clinic personnel pass him by.

No one stops him, and he reaches the exit unnoticed. He isn’t overly surprised; most adults seem to not be able to see him if he isn’t in a group of people.

Mrs. McCall would notice him, he thinks. She has an air about her of caring and genuine worry. She had barely glimpsed the seat of his boxers before stopping him and asking about potential injuries. About maybe being raped.

Derek shudders at the word. He isn’t delusional; he knows that what Peter and Kate do is _that word_ but he doesn’t attribute it to himself. He doesn’t think of himself as a victim or a survivor. He knows he isn’t complacent in his own abuse, but it doesn’t feel like he is completely blameless either.

Outside, it is too hot, and his skin prickles uncomfortably, goose pimples rising on his arms as his body’s temperature goes from too cold to too hot in the span of a few seconds. It’s really bright and kind of shimmery as well. He is panicking. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, can hear the blood rushing through his ears. What if the phone call Mrs. McCall made was to Mom? _What if it was to Kate or Peter?_

Derek doesn’t think when he takes off running, dodging people on the sidewalk as he stumbles and limps to his unpicked destination.

Surprisingly, when he comes back to himself, chest heaving with panting breaths, ankle throbbing with renewed pain, he finds himself standing in front of the large plate glass windows of _Kitchen Fresh_.

He lets himself in, reaching up to hold the bell until the door closes behind him so that it won’t announce him. The dark haired clerk at the front register still looks up when he edges past her.

“Hey,” she says softly, eyeing him in a way that makes him feel stripped bare and left wanting. “How’d it go?”

He glances down at his feet, stares at his untied shoelaces, and grimaces. “Okay,” he answers. “I can’t put too much weight on it—a bad sprain. But, otherwise I’ve got a  clean bill of health.” He keeps his face blank, letting her study him with her critical eye.

She finally nods slowly, like she knows he’s full of shit and she shouldn’t trust him, but she doesn’t say anything else, pointing him back to the office.

Mrs. Stilinski is on her phone when he taps on the door. She raises a finger to signal him to wait, and then glances up. She freezes, mouth gaping, eyes widening. Derek shuffles his feet self-consciously.

“I’ll call you back,” she says into the phone and hangs up. For a long moment, she just stares at him.

“I can still work,” he starts and her hand flies up to cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says sharply. “I have just fielded no less than three calls from the hospital _and_ the Sheriff’s Station. What the hell were you thinking, running away like that?”

“I couldn’t stay,” he says quietly, pulling back. She rises quickly, crossing the floor with loud stamps of her feet. Derek steps back again, twisting to run, but before he can, she pulls the door shut with a bang and her hand clamps down on his arm. He panics, jerking his arm in her grasp while he wheezes loudly and his vision whites out.

He tries forcing an apology though his numbed lips, certain that is what she wants, but the words stick in his throat, choked by his inability to draw in enough oxygen. Embarrassingly, he lets out a little sob and sinks down against the door when he realizes she is still holding his arm— _touching_ him.

Almost immediately after that, she recoils, letting him go while her face twists in horror.

“Oh, God,” she moans, scrubbing a hand over her face as she paces back to her desk. She drops down into the chair and covers her face again. Derek stares at her in confusion.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asks.

“N-no,” Derek stammers, still breathing hard, crouched down. The position is hurting his ankle more, but down here, he can actually draw in small breaths.

“Look,” Mrs. Stilinski says, pinning him with that same look of horror, “you’ve still got a trial period with us, granted the hospital actually okays you to work.”

Relief bursts in his chest at her words, but it is short-lived when she picks up her phone and speed-dials someone. “My husband, Sheriff Stilinski, will take you back to the hospital where you will stay until you are released. Understood?”

He nods numbly. One day and his world is crashing down around his ears. He wonders where he fucked up, when it all started unraveling and falling down, his precious tower of cards. Distantly, he hopes his parents won’t realize just how bad it is, won’t punish him for what he almost did. Will do. With Mrs. McCall and the Stilinskis, there is no way he can hide it for much longer.

It should be relieving to not have to hide what happens to him, to maybe have it actually stop, to have Laura able to hug him without freaking him out. Instead, all Derek feels is the return of the panic swelling in his chest again, constricting his lungs until all he can do is wheeze pitifully.

He hears Mrs. Stilinski murmuring quietly to the Sheriff. She isn’t fully distracted enough for him to leverage himself upright and slip away. Hot tears burn his eyes at the hopelessness he feels at being cornered.

“Please don’t tell my mom,” he pleads softly. He doesn’t need her icy stares and accusatory questions. “Please?”

The door behind him flies open then, and Derek lets out a startled grunt. It’s only Stiles though.

“Mom!” he cries, and Derek takes in the towel wrapped around his hand. “Emergency!”

“Stay here,” Mrs. Stilinski barks at Derek as she follows Stiles to the kitchen. Derek doesn’t have a choice when the Sheriff immediately steps into the room.

“Son,” he says, carefully. Derek sees the pity in his eyes and closes off. If the Sheriff wants answers, he is going to have to dig for them.

~ * ~

“I’m an idiot,” Scott says, grimacing when Mrs. S. presses the cold cloth against his arm. “I should have remembered to use a hot pad or oven mitt or anything but a towel.” Said towel is on the floor along with a pan of sugar cookies. Scott mourns their sacrifice.

He moans in pain when Mrs. S. moves him closer to the sink by pulling on his injured appendage. The blisters didn’t look too bad before Stiles ran for his mom. Now they are white lumps on a reddened patch of skin. If it didn’t hurt so much he would say he has had worse. He’s fallen off both his and Stiles’ roofs after all. Two broken legs and a fractured clavicle had been annoyingly painful.

Mrs. S. clicks her tongue. “Let’s see if John can take you to the ER,” she says. “Gotta make sure the burn isn’t too bad. You’ve got the week or until your hand is better off, whichever is longer.”

Scott wants to protest, deny his injury and demand to keep working, but Mrs. S.’s face is stormy, and he has never been the best with confrontations against direct orders.

There is a reason he broke his bones first instead of Stiles.

“Okay,” he says instead, letting her guide him toward the office. Stiles steps away from the open door, a look of worry pinching his face. Scott tries to give him a thumbs up with his burned hand and has to bite down the hiss of pain.

Inside the office, he sees the Sheriff leaning over Derek, perched on one of the chairs in front of the desk. Mr. S. looks sad and angry at the same time, and Derek is way tense.

“John,” Mrs. S. says quietly, and Mr. S. looks up. Something about him makes Scott think he is at the end of his rope. “Scott needs a ride to the ER—he’s burned his hand. Derek needs to go back too.”

Mr. S. shakes his head. “Talia’s going to take Derek.” Scott notices Derek’s full body flinch. From the way they both stiffen, he thinks the Stilinskis noticed too.

“I’d rather ride with you,” Derek says, almost too quiet to hear from the doorway. “If it’s okay with you?” he adds.

Mr. S. raises his hand slowly, and Derek freezes when he runs a finger down his cheek, skirting ht bruise.

“Fine,” Mr. S. sighs. He helps Derek stand and hop toward the front door. “You gotta tell her what’s going on, kiddo.”

“I’m fine,” Derek grits out. Scott shakes his head at the obvious lie, biting back an automatic retort.

Derek doesn’t need someone he doesn’t even know telling him what to do on top of having the Sheriff order him about. From what Stiles said when he asked Scott to burn his hand for him, Derek’s had it rough the past couple days.

Mr. S. lets Derek sit up front in his police car while Scott slides into the back.

“I’m going to let your mom know to meet us at the hospital,” Mr. S. says to Derek before pinning Scott with a knowing look. “I’ll let Melissa know you’re coming in too.”

“Thanks, Mr. S.,” Scott says. He busies himself with wrapping and unwrapping the towel Mrs. S. left draped over his injury so he won’t listen into Mr. S.’s conversations with their mothers. Derek doesn’t seem to have the same compunctions, cocking his head to better hear  the angered shout emanating from Mr. S.’s cell phone.

“I understand that, Mrs. Hale, but you have to understand—”

Derek grabs the phone out of Mr. S.’s grip, barks, “I’m fine,” into it, and presses the ‘end’ button. He hands the phone back to Mr. S. and slumps against the window, staring with a broody gaze at nothing. Apparently, he only had enough energy to do that, Scott surmises.

Mr. S. clears his throat. Both Derek and Scott jump. “You okay there, son?”

Derek snorts. “I’m fine. We should really go—Scott burned his hand pretty badly.”

“Did not!” Scott protests, half-heartedly. He can feel it throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He wonders why he even let Stiles talk him into doing it.

“Did too,” Derek counters. Mr. S. eyes him in the rearview mirror so Scott doesn’t respond again despite the fact that he wants to, and that he and Stiles have had awesome and impressive, hour-long did-did-not back and forth conversations.

The closer they get to Beacon Hills  Memorial Hospital, the lower Derek sinks in his seat until Scott is certain he is hiding from someone. His suspicion is confirmed when, almost before they have come to a full stop and Mr. S. has disengaged the locks, Derek’s door is yanked open and a woman Scott does not recognize reaches in to pat at Derek.

“Mom, I’m fine,” Derek grumbles, batting her hands away so he can climb out awkwardly, hopping on his good foot while keeping his twisted ankle up.

Scott scrambles out too, offering his uninjured hand to the woman. “Scott McCall,” he says, shaking her hand firmly, enjoying the bewildered expression on her face. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Hale. I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“You and me both,” Mrs. Hale says. She puts her arm around Derek’s shoulders. Scott notices the stronger flinch this time and winces in sympathy as Derek starts struggling to pull away from his mother.

“I believe Derek was in the middle of an exam when he decided to return to work,” Mr. S. says as he rounds the car to guide both Scott and Derek toward the entrance of the hospital, where Mom is waiting, a tense look on her face.

“Oh, boy,” Scott swallows hard. He wonders how long it will take her to crack him,. To get him to admit his hand is the result of another one of Stiles’ schemes. Not long, he is certain. Not when she has _that_ look on her face. He is so dead.

“Is she mad at you or me?” Derek leans over to whisper.

“Both?” Scott returns. Yeah, she’s probably mad at them both. They are both dead!

“Scott,” Mom says, gripping his shoulder. “Nurse Lacey will tend to you.” She smiles at him, so he guesses that she isn’t mad at him—yet. “Right now, Derek needs me more, okay?”

“I understand,” he says. He glances at Derek, noticing that he is almost tucked under Mr. S.’s arm, shying away from his own mother. Mrs. Hale looks devastated. “Hey, Derek?” Derek snaps his attention to Scott. “You are brave, okay? Don’t let anyone say otherwise.”

Derek nods once and squares his shoulder. The last Scott sees of him, he is leading the way, like a soldier going off to war, limping like one returning home.

~ * ~

Melissa stays in the room with Derek this time, one eye on the boy sitting on the bed, the other on his mother folded into one of the chairs.

John is called away to deal with a pot dealer squirreled up in the iron works district, and he leaves a deputy in his stead. The young man sits on the other available chair, notepad open, pen poised, as he waits for Melissa to begin the exam. A camera sits under his chair.

Although Derek seems wary of the deputy, he seems more at ease with him in the room, and Melissa sends John a silent note of thanks for his insight.

“Derek,” the deputy says, “I’m Jordan. I’ll be taking your statement today. I’ll also need to take some pictures. Is that okay with you?”

“Maybe,” Derek replies, eyeing his mother openly. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No, you’re not,” Melissa hurries to assure him, smiling kindly at him from her seat in front of the intake computer. Derek doesn’t look convinced. “Would it be easier if your mother stepped out for the exam?”

Talia’s look of betrayal is dwarfed by the relief that flashes across Derek’s face. Silently, Talia stands up. She offers a hug to Derek, who accepts, surprisingly, before she leaves the room, the door clicking shut.

“Okay,” Jordan says, standing up and gesturing at Derek with his notepad, “you’ll need to disrobe, and I need to take pictures of any visible marks. I was informed there was blood in your undergarments.”

Derek flinches back at his words, and Melissa shoves Jordan back into his chair when she passes him. Derek stares wide-eyed at her as she pulls the curtain around his bed. She hands him a paper gown—skirt, really.

Earlier, before he had bolted, she noticed some partially healed scratches on his back. She doesn’t know if he is aware of them or not since, out of all his injuries, he hadn’t made an excuse for them.

“Let me know if you need any help,” she says. He nods, and she leaves him to it, going back to her computer to read through his file again.

He has been to the clinic a lot this past year and a half. Stitches on his inner thigh from an accident involving a pool cleaning stick this spring; minor concussion last year from falling off a ladder at home; broken fingers and a broken arm last summer. Each injury tended by a different presiding physician, and always on a Thursday. No meds aside from basic painkillers prescribed. No notes about keeping an eye on him in his file.

She shakes her head at the number of times he has already managed to slip through the hospital’s cracks.

Derek clears his throat softly, and Melissa stops Jordan with a hand to his arm. “Do you need help?” she asks.

“No,” Derek replies. “I’m ready, I think.”

Melissa checks the door on her way back to the exam bed, making sure it is still shut tight before she says, “I’m opening the curtain, okay?” She waits until he acknowledges her, his voice shaking with terror.

Jordan stays in his seat by the grace of the glare Melissa sends his way, while Derek sits, tense, arms crossed over his chest, shivering almost violently. Melissa pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves with as little noise as she can so that she won’t startle him further.

“I’m going to look at your foot first,” she says. “Okay?” He nods, extending his leg. She winces as she examines his swollen ankle. Walking on it all day has not been kind to it.

“Can you flex it for me?” Derek does, and he immediately blanches and bites back a scream. “I think it’s broken,” she says, gently probing it and feeling the calcaneus bone shifting and grinding against itself. Derek yells, jerking his foot from her grasp, and she frowns apologetically at him. “We’ll need to schedule a scan to make sure that’s what’s wrong. We won’t be able to do anything except put a cast on it to keep it from moving while it heals enough. I just want you to be aware, you may need surgery on it.”

Melissa can’t be sure since he did it so quietly, but she thinks she hears Derek mutter, “Fuck,” under his breath. She agrees with his sentiment.

“I need you to lie back so we can do the kit. Jordan’s going to take pictures while I work. Okay?”

“No,” Derek says honestly. “Not really.” His blinks rapidly, and Melissa notices the tears gathering in his eyes. His breathing is also a bit fast for her liking, his chest heaving with the effort of pulling in oxygen.

Perhaps a regular exam would put him more at ease first, she thinks. “Derek,” she says, to get his attention. “I’m going to take your blood pressure, listen to your heart, check your ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Is that better?”

“Marginally.”

“You’re doing fine, honey,” she assures him, motioning Jordan forward to take a picture of his cheek, of the bruise there that looks incredibly like a handprint. “Meanwhile,” she says, casually, “wanna tell me how you got that?”

“I deserved it,” Derek says quietly, still blinking tears away as his breath whistles in his nose. “I took something from my sister, from Laura. My mom found out and this is what happened.” He frowns suddenly, then looks up in absolute panic. “She only hit me once.”

Melissa doesn’t respond as she moves her stethoscope over his chest. Her ex-husband had once upon a time only hit her once. The next time, and there usually always was a next time, he hadn’t stopped at once.

“No one deserves to be hit,” Jordan says quietly, camera shutter clicking away as he snaps photo after photo of Derek’s cheek, of his face angled this way and that, definitely capturing the width and breadth of the print. Melissa looks down at her own hand, comparing it to Talia’s. It matches.

Derek doesn’t look like he believes Jordan. He sniffles miserably when Melissa shines a light in his ears, and she offers him a small smile.

“I don’t want to do this,” he says. “I’m dealing with it. Please?”

“I’m sorry, Derek, but I have to report instances of abuse.”

“My mom didn’t mean to hurt me,” he says, gesturing at the bruise again. “She’s just been really frustrated with me lately.”

“How long is lately?” Jordan asks, and Derek sighs.

“Maybe ever since Laura got emancipated?” he offers.

Melissa and Jordan share an almost horrified look. Laura’s swap of guardianship was nearly six years ago. He sniffles again, and afraid that he will revoke his consent for the kit, Melissa asks, “Is there anyone you want in the room when we’re doing the kit? Maybe Laura?”

“Laura isn’t his guardian,” Jordan protests, but Derek nods quickly.

“I think I could do it then,” he says.

Melissa retrieves a sterile blanket that she drapes over Derek, pushing him flat on his back and tucking him in. “Jordan is going to stand outside and make sure no one else comes in while I call your sister. She’s your emergency contact?” Derek nods. “Try to relax, honey, you’re going to be fine.”

“Promise?” he whispers, and she smiles.

“Promise.”

Jordan follows her into the hall and shuts the door behind him. “Nurse McCall?” he asks quietly. “Do you think someone in his family sexually abused him?”

Melissa glances around to make sure Talia Hale isn’t anywhere nearby before she leans in to whisper, “Honestly? I have no idea, but I’m praying like hell the answer is no.”

Jordan does not seem satisfied with her answer, frowning after her as she heads to the nurses’ station to call Laura. And John since he might have more insight into Derek’s life at this point than she does.

She passes Talia standing in a corner looking almost as broken and lost as her son. Melissa almost feels sorry for her, but she remembers the handprint on Derek’s cheek, his insistence that it was only once, and she hardens her resolve against the woman.

~ * ~

Laura is in the middle of her last class for the day when her phone rings. Emilio hands her the Ziploc bag she keeps it in, his normally pleasant face twisted into anger.

“No pregnant,” he says. Confused, she answers the phone, the number of the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital staring up at her from the cracked screen.

“This is Laura Hale,” she says, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

“Laura, this is Melissa McCall at Beacon Hills Memorial. Can you come in to oversee a procedure with your brother, Derek?”

Laura freezes. Mom had called her when Derek had run away, but Derek has spent nights outside before without needing the hospital. She is beginning to think Mom didn’t tell her everything about last night.

“Laura,” Melissa prompts, and she realizes she still hasn’t responded.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice cracking sharply. She clears her throat and repeats, “Yeah. I’ll be in. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right there. Is he—is Derek okay?”

She can’t imagine he is, considering Melissa from the hospital is calling her.

“He’s not…badly injured,” Melissa says with an edge to her tone. The odd pause makes Laura worry more. “Just,” Melissa continues, the edge getting harder. “Be prepared for an earthquake.”

“An earthquake?” Laura repeats, but Melissa has already hung up. Emilio, standing by her elbow, glares at her. “My brother, Derek? He’s in the hospital. I need to be with him.”

Emilio’s face softens, and he nods. “Derek is good boy? He tell Sheriff, I no serve minors. Go, be with brother Derek. Wish him good health from Emilio.”

Laura embraces him briefly before making her apologies to her class. Then, she changes into her street clothes, an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt of Benjamin’s. She stuffs her dance clothes into her duffle bag, makes sure she has her iPod and some puzzle books Derek likes to work on when he stays at her apartment, and heads toward Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My Tumblr](1989dreamer.tumblr.com).


	5. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of a rape kit. Let me know if there are any inaccuracies.

~ * ~

Derek listens to his mother arguing with Mrs. McCall right outside the door. Mom is mad because Laura has been called. Mrs. McCall is mad because Mom keeps trying to push past her.

Deputy Jordan, who had come back into the room as soon as Mrs. McCall told him to, looks up from his notebook. To distract Derek, he has been sketching faces, female and male, and showing them off, letting Derek change features until he has two composites.

Derek wonders how mad he will be when he realizes the sketch of the male looks like the crazy lacrosse coach who works summers in the bike shop next to _Kitchen Fresh_ , and that the woman is Mrs. Romero, Derek’s old babysitter, who moved to Los Angeles last fall.

Deputy Jordan seems to think they are making real progress now, but Derek still flinches with each new composite. He doesn’t fully trust himself not to accidentally describe Peter or Kate.

Suddenly, the voices outside the door, the ones making him overly anxious and snappish toward the deputy, go quiet. Deputy Jordan stands up, setting the notebook down with a dull clonk that makes Derek jump and his heart race.

“Mom?” a new voice says, and Derek swallows hard. Laura is here. She’s actually here. Mrs. McCall really called her and she’s here!

“Why are you here?” Mom asks, and someone, probably Mrs. McCall, snorts.

“I’m here for Derek,” Laura replies calmly. “What about you?”

Mom sounds like she wants to cry when she echoes his name. Derek doesn’t care. He still doesn’t want her in the room with him. He reaches up to brush fingers over the bruise on his cheek. The deputy shoots him a knowing look. Derek scowls at him.

“Mrs. Hale, I need you to go back to the waiting room. I’ll find you when we’re done with the procedure.” Mrs. McCall sounds authoritative. Mom butts heads with authrioty all day. It’s her job as a member of City Council and as the head of several philanthropic endeavors.

“I’m his mother!” Mom snaps, and Derek shivers at the vehemence in her voice. “He’s a minor. I _need_ to be with him.”

“Actually,” Mrs. McCall retorts, just as sharply, “no, you don’t. According to state law, legally, you don’t have to be in the room with him. And especially if he’s requested you not to be there. I need him as calm as possible. He’s not calm with you hovering. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have a patient _I_ need to see.”

The door opens, and Laura and Mrs. McCall enter. Mom tries to follow them into the room, and Mrs. McCall slams the door in her face. Then, she directs Laura to the seat next to Deputy Jordan’s.

She stares around the room apprehensively, clutching at the strap of her duffle bag. She must have still been at _Emilio’s_. Derek feels guilty for having her pulled away from it. That’s her job. She doesn’t have to be here for her brother with his stupid problems.

Derek tries to breathe as he watches Laura take in the camera under the deputy’s seat again, the chart by Melissa’s desk, and the fact that Derek is only wearing a thin paper skirt.

Laura stifles a hysterical laugh. “An earthquake,” she murmurs, non sequitur. “Oh, Derek!” She starts sobbing, great big harsh sounds that tear out of her and slam into his heart. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She stands up, leaving the duffle by her chair, and steps up to the bed to hug him tightly.

He freezes in her embrace and she pulls back. “I love you,” she says, fiercely, through her tears. “I will _always_ love you, Derek. Do you understand? _Always_.”

I l-love you, too,” Derek manages to stutter through numb lips. He squeezes back as long as he can, almost crying at the frustration that wells up when the two-point-five second hug is done. He wants to be able to hug his sister without feeling as if he’s staining her with his shame and pain.

“Laura,” Mrs. McCall says as she puts on a fresh pair of gloves, “please set your chair to the right side of the exam table. I need you to comfort Derek as we assess his injuries and administer any treatment he requires.” Laura nods, dragging the chair to the requested position and sitting down. Mrs. McCall hands her a pair of gloves to wear. Then, she pulls the curtain closed again.

Derek stares at the spot where Laura is sitting, watching her silhouette snap on the gloves.

“Lean back,” Mrs. McCall tells him. When he does, he realizes he can stick his hand out and touch Laura’s shoulder. His sister twists in her chair, reaching out to grip him with her gloved hand. She presses a soft kiss to his knuckles.

“Always,” she whispers, laying her cheek on their hands.

Mrs. McCall goes through the kit quickly, explaining what she is doing and why. Some of it, Derek understands, like scraping underneath his nails. He doesn’t bother telling them that Kate ties him so he can’t scratch her and Peter always trims his nails and cleans under them after he is done.

He also doesn’t say anything when Mrs. McCall swabs his genitals or his back. All the while, Deputy Jordan snaps pictures.

Derek would feel embarrassed when they lay his…cock on a cardboard slat to photograph it, but by that time, he is ashamed already, suffering in silence as they work him over to collect evidence that probably isn’t there anyway.

“Derek,” Mrs. McCall finally says after what feels like hours of being poked and scraped and moved, “this will be cold.” Even with her warning, he tenses when he feels her cold hands trail over his legs, lifting his hips and fitting his feet flat on the bed so she can expose his butt to the camera.

Kate’s hands are always cold, he thinks as Mrs. McCall’s fingers dig into his cheeks, prying him open as the camera flashes. It didn’t matter if Kate warmed her hands on the old radiator in his room. She was still so fucking cold when she fingered him. He half expects Mrs. McCall to lick him, to take him into her mouth and hurt him with teeth and fingers.

Laura’s hand spasms in his, like she can feel him flinching.

“Breathe, Derek,” Mrs. McCall instructs, and the shuddering gasp he manages to suck in makes his chest hurt more. He can feel the digit circling his hole and he whimpers as it presses inside gently.

“I need you to raise your hips more,” Mrs. McCall says, clinically detached. “Heels down and spread.” She jerks him into position again, and it feels like Kate is in the room with them, sitting on his chest, taunting him as she forces her largest dildo into his unprepared hole. He panics, shaking and whimpering and crying.

Distantly, he can hear Laura start humming, and both her hands clutch his. He focuses on her, trying to make out the song.

And still Mrs. McCall goes on. She says, “I need to open you up a little—there’s fresh blood and I need to find the source.”

He can’t swallow the sob that tears out of his throat when something non-human pushes into him. He can feel himself opening, pressure exerted from the inside out, and it hurts. It hurts. Kate, stop!

Almost immediately, the pressure decreases and the pain fades into a dull ache.

“Jordan?” Mrs. McCall says, tight syllables betraying her anger.

“Got it, Nurse McCall,” Deputy Jordan says.

“Derek,” Laura stops humming to say, “it’s okay. She won’t hurt you anymore.”

Derek furrows his brow, meeting her determined look with one of confusion. “Mrs. McCall didn’t really hurt me,” he says, slowly, watching as Laura’s expression morphs to match his.

“Not Mrs. McCall,” she clarifies, just as slowly. “Kate.” Derek feels his heart stop beating for a few painful seconds.

“W-what?” he stutters. “Kate?” This is the first time he has said her name out loud—or rather the second, if Laura is to be believed. “Peter’s Kate?” The third time.

“Do you know any others?” Laura quips, and Derek shakes his head.

“There’s a dozen Kates in my grade,” he says, the fourth, but it sounds weak even to him. “Oh, my God,” he whispers. “She’s going to kill me!” A few weeks ago, on her birhtday, she’d shoved a knobbed dildo into him to persuade him to swear not to tell. She had kissed him and told him that she loved him when he promised that it would be their little secret.

Ironically, it is the bleeding from her latest fucking session that led to this predicament. Kate probably won’t see it like that, though, and Derek hopes he can escape before she can get to him.

He tenses, feeling the room swaying gently around him even though he’s still flat on his back, feet against the bed, Laura’s hand clutching his. He wants to throw up.

Mrs. McCall says, “Derek.”

Laura says, “Derek.”

The door opens, and staring wide-eyed into the room, tears spilling down her face, Mom sobs, “Derek.”

Derek jerks his hand free from Laura so he can press both of them over his face and cry.

~ * ~

“Kate?” John says into his phone. It is a rhetorical question, as he is never going to forget the name of Derek Hale’s abuser as long as he lives.

“Yes, sir,” Jordan Parrish says anyway. “I don’t have a last name yet, but it is obvious the family knows her.”

Shit, John thinks. It makes sense, with her being in the family photos. He scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing at his tired eyes.

The only blessing today has been the apprehension of that scumbag dealer.

The best thing to do would be to talk to the boy, but from Parrish’s reluctance to confirm or deny the boy’s state of health, John thinks he won’t be allowed near him for a while. The next best thing is to get the full name of the abuser from either Talia or James and then arrest her.

“Parrish, is Mrs. Hale still at the hospital?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like to speak with her?”

“Yes, I would, thank you.” He waits a few seconds before Talia Hale, watery and stuffed up, says a tentative, “Hello.”

“Talia,” he says firmly, with his Sheriff-voice. “I need to know everything about any Kates you know.”

“I only know one: Kate Argent. She’s the new swim coach at the high school. She’s part of Peter’s book club. He would know more about her, especially as they’re dating. Why do you need to know about her?” He can hear the suspicion in her tone, and he has to wonder if she is, albeit misguided, trying to protect her son.

It does not make it any easier to ask, “Any chance she’s been alone with Derek at all?”

Talia laughs miserably. “Are you asking if I let that vile bitch anywhere near my son?” She pauses for a long moment, breathing harshly, as if fighting back tears, before whispering, near inaudibly, “Yes.”

“I will still need to speak with Derek regarding this matter,” John says, blinking away his own tears. “But, I want you to know—we won’t rest until your son has justice.” This is the first time he has been in charge of an investigation into alleged child sexual abuse, and by God, he is _not_ going to fuck it up.

“Justice won’t bring back his innocence or make me any less of a failure.” Talia sighs. “Just keep that woman away from us—from Derek.”

She hangs up before John can respond.

~ * ~

Laura keeps her butt firmly planted in her chair, watching silently as Melissa and Mom and the deputy run all over the place.

Melissa is filling form after form and half of them she shoves under Laura’s nose to sign, something about outcry witnesses, half of them she hands to Mom for her signature because Derek is a minor in the middle of a breakdown. Laura doesn’t even know what the deputy is up to but it seems like he is coming and going and sometimes doing both at the same time.

It would be comical, but every time Laura wants to laugh, she looks to her right and the sight of Derek, flat on his back, hands covering his face while he stifles the sounds of his crying, stops her.

Before she started harvesting a forest for reports, Melissa gave Derek a set of white scrubs to put on after she managed to complete his rape kit.

He never stopped crying the whole time. A dam released and overflowing and all Laura can do is listen to the broken sound of him  Once he is dressed again, Laura pulls back the curtain so she can wrap him in her arms. But, he flinches and cries harder when she touches him, so now, she just sits here, trying not to cry herself.

She wants to kill Kate for what she has done to her brother, for taking a cautious but affectionate and happy _child_ and turning him into a broken shell. She is also mad at herself for not seeing what was happening, for leaving him in a home where Kate, a semi-permanent fixture of Peter’s life, had unfettered access to him.

“Do you hate me?” Derek mumbles from behind his hands. He peeks at her, fresh tears gathering in his eyes.

“I could never hate you,” she says, trying to be reassuring and knowing that she fails miserably. “I said always, and I mean it.

Mom sobs loudly from her corner. The sheriff has been calling almost non-stop, demanding all the information they have on Kate, which only makes everyone even more on edge. Laura wants to feel bad for Mom—Talia _is_ her mother—but she hasn’t been a parent to Laura for so long that it is hard to remain pleasant—or as pleasant as the circumstances will allow—toward the woman.

Not to mention, as mad as Laura is at herself for missing the signs, she is even madder at Mom and Dad, who actually got to see and interact with Derek daily.

The bruise under his eye hasn’t gone unnoticed, nor has the guilty look Mom keeps shooting at him when she thinks Laura isn’t looking. She wonders if the money Mom had asked her about when she’d called about Derek’s departure last night had anything to do with it.

“Always?” Derek suddenly says, sitting up, hands curled in his lap. His eyes are red and his nose is swollen. He wipes his nose on the shoulder of his scrub top, staring at her. “What if I told you I liked it, liked the attention?”

Laura knows her brother, and she knows that this anger is his way of trying to protect either her or himself, and she swallows the snort she normally would have let out. Mom is not so kind, following her noise of dissent with a sharp, cold, “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you didn’t like it.”

“Go away, Mom,” Laura says, icy. “We don’t need you anymore.” It’s true. Melissa has the last form that Mom, as Derek’s guardian, needed to sign.

“Laura!” Mom says, shocked. “That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“Maybe you should actually be a mother instead of this facsimile of one,” Laura counters. “I am old enough and stable enough that as soon as the paperwork goes through, I’ll be Derek’s guardian. We’ll get him emancipated from you too! He doesn’t need your toxic everything around him!”

Talia turns to Derek, but Derek is hiding his face again, and he refuses to acknowledge her. The deputy appears again and shoves Talia toward the door, healthily helping her form the room before shutting the door in her face. He leans against it, arms crossed over his chest, eyes assessing but kind.

“Derek,” Melissa says, looking up from the file in front of her. Derek flinches at her voice but lets his hands fall off his face so he can look at her. “We need to get your foot examined. Is it okay to do that?”

Derek nods. He holds up his hands so Laura and Melissa can help him off the bed. He stares pensively at the wall behind them before asking, almost too soft to hear, “Do you think it’s my fault?”

“I think it’s Kate’s fault, what she did to you. And I’ll spend as much time as you need me to tell you this. Remember, Derek, I’ll always love you.”

“Why does Mom hate me?”

Laura blows out a breath. How best to respond to _that_ , she wonders. “I don’t think she hates you,” she says, hesitantly. Mom certainly doesn’t seem like she hates Derek. She just doesn’t seem to love him either. Honestly, she hasn’t ever really given much thought to Mom’s relationship with Derek beyond the fact that Mom uses both Derek and Cora to try to guilt trip her into spending more time at home.

“She’s just—it’s just hard for her to reconcile the changes in you,” she tries. “You used to be so happy and you loved without question and I hate that bitch for taking that part of you.”

“Laura,” Derek says, reaching for her and clinging tightly. “I’m so scared. What if Kate comes after us?”

“She won’t,” the deputy says, a determined look on his face. “I’ll make sure of it.”

~ * ~

Stiles is the one who gets to lock up the bakery tonight. Mom has had to hire a few new people just to cover Jackson’s quitting and Scott’s injury (and Derek’s inability to work). In the kitchen, there is a scrawny kid barely old enough to pass muster as a cook, and Danny gets to train a tree of a kid to hall supplies around.

Scott is off work until his hand heals, which will be about two weeks. He almost needed a skin graft if his whining is to be believed. Even though Scott has a tendency to over-exaggerate things, his tale of pain is almost enough to make Stiles feel guilty for pressuring him into burning his hand. Almost. Sometimes, Stiles is a horrible person.

Derek is not coming back at all, according to the codes on the police radio Mom keeps in her office to keep track of Dad’s call outs. A Code 261 and a Code 288. Rape and Crimes Against Children.

The 10-30 is a woman named Kate Argent.

Stiles recognizes her name from the book club that meets every other Wednesday and occupies the back tables for a good two or three hours.

Sometimes, Stiles really is a horrible person.

He is supposed to be training in Lahey, the new cook, but he would rather hide in Mom’s office and keep listening to the radio for more updates.

Whenever Mom sees him, she banishes him back to the kitchen where Lahey follows him around like a lost soul looking for sanctuary. Eventually, Mom joins Lahey and him to start making rolls that they can freeze to use on the weekend.

Apparently, just because the world of one of his classmates—although Derek is technically in the grade above Stiles, they are the same age right now—has come crashing down, it doesn’t mean his world gets to stop too. In fact, it might even be spinning a little faster right now.

“Mom,” he says once everything is done. All the nightly chores have been completed and Mom and he are the only ones left. He locks the doors and tugs at them to make sure they are really locked.

Mom just stares through him, heading for where she parked her Jeep.

“Mom,” he says louder. And she finally turns to face him.

“I let her in the bakery,” she says, numbly, if the way she wavers after she says it is any indication. Stiles moves to lean against her, propping her up. He starts shuffling forward toward the vehicle. “I let her around you and Scott and Danny. _I_ let her in.”

Stiles wonders why Mom blames herself for Kate Argent’s apparent predatory behavior, and then he recalls the way she blames herself for anything that goes wrong in her domain. Dad says Stiles is the same way.

“She didn’t hurt any of us,” he says. “And whatever she did to Derek, she did before you met him.”

“You don’t understand, Stiles,” Mom insists. “She comes in and talks to me about her boyfriend, about the trouble that she has with him in the bedroom and how inconsiderate he is. I gave her advice to deal with him. Advice that was designed to make him more attentive and then to punish him for his failures when that didn’t work.”

She stops moving and grabs Stiles’ shoulders. “I was the one who suggested she peg him!”

“Peg?” Stiles repeats, almost incredulously. That is more than he ever wanted to know about his parents’ sex life. He knows what pegging is—fifteen-year-old boy with a laptop and a healthy libido, thanks very much. His favorite video right now is of a woman in a leather-and-lace combo with a, frankly, frighteningly shaped dildo attached to her crotch, which she uses to ‘rehabilitate’ a group of male and female prisoners. What he doesn’t understand is how Mom knows what sex acts were performed on Derek. That wasn’t on the radio.

Mom waves her hand. “Yes, peg. I’ll explain it later. The thing is, I’m the one who gave her that idea. _I’m_ the one who could have helped that boy.”

Mom lurches away, movements sharp and jerky. She keeps muttering to herself, shaking the Jeep’s keys in her hand. Stiles is afraid that she might vomit right now.

“Can I drive?” he asks, surprised when she tosses the keys to him without argument. He waits until they are both buckled in before he turns on the ignition and says, nonchalantly, “I don’t think Derek blames you.”

“Derek doesn’t have to blame me,” Mom says. “I blame me. She had access to more victims because of me. She used ideas from me. No, Stiles, no one has to blame me because I accept my responsibility in all this.”

Stiles parks the Jeep in front of their house. “Mom,” he says, grabbing her hand when she unbuckles herself, “will Derek be okay?”

“Maybe someday,” is the only answer he gets before Mom opens her door and climbs out, taking the keys with her. Then, she goes inside the house, leaving Stiles still sitting in the driver’s seat wondering just how in the hell Mom knows what she knows and how it came to be that Derek could even be abused that badly. Doesn’t he live in a house with four other people?

~ * ~

According to the doctor, a fumbling man with a mop of silvering hair and roughly shaved stubble, Derek will require surgery on his ankle, but it’s too swollen right now to do anything about.

Derek mutters darkly when the doctor twists his foot this way and that, explaining about calcaneus bones and redefinition. Finally, the man whisks away, leaving Nurse McCall to administer a second dose of pain killers just so the pinched look on Derek’s face eases while another nurse fits him with a bright blue walking cast.

He also is given a pair of adjustable crutches to hop about on. Laura watches him with amusement as he makes several circuits around the recovery room they have been stashed in.

Every time he passes her, she says, “I love you.” He grunts in response, too stubborn to admit he is out of breath and still in pain, despite the double dose Nurse McCall gave him a half an hour ago. Finally, though, he runs out of steam and collapses, as gently as he can, on the bed, leaning the crutches against the railing.

Laura helps him swing his legs onto the mattress and covers him with a thin blanket before pressing a kiss to his forehead with a wet smack. He wipes at it half-heartedly, eyes already sliding closed as his body relaxes and he drifts off to sleep. It is uneasy and filled with small sighs as he sinks into REM.

Almost as soon as he settles into deep sleep, her phone vibrates. With a last, worried glance at Derek, she steps into the hall, shutting the door behind her and pressing the ‘send’ button.

“Laura,” she hears before she can say anything, and she sags in relief. It’s just Benjamin. He sounds as worried as she feels.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Hey, babe, how’s Derek doing?” Benjamin has always been kind to her little brother, often going out of his way on patrol to make sure Derek makes it from one job to another especially after Cora lets them know about the rough nights at home.

That is another reason Laura is mad at Mom and Dad. Seriously, who does the things they do and expects to be thanked for it? She knows about the food thing, and it makes her see red sometimes.

“He’s doing as well as can be expected,” she finally says. “God, I just want to punch everyone who has ever wronged him in the fucking face. Starting with that vile bitch.”

“I’m probably not supposed to say this, especially since I’m not supposed to know, but they found evidence with the kit. It’s being rushed off to a lab in Sacramento for analysis. She won’t get away with it.”

“Do you think she’ll plead guilty or will Derek have to testify against her?” She recalls the terrified hug he had given her before his MRI scan. He has said, only once, that Kate will kill him when she realizes that he told on her. Even with the bullshit Mom and Dad put him through, she has never seen her brother so frightened that he would seek comfort in physical contact.

“I don’t know, babe. We’ll have to see how it progresses.” He pauses and she knows he is going to say something she probably won’t like. “So, Derek’s sixteen this year. I’ve got the forms for his emancipation. But, if we get him emancipated now or after his birthday, I don’t know if we’ll have the funds to get him any help he needs.”

Laura thinks of her bank account, sitting a couple hundred dollars above zero. “My parents might be guilted into helping, but it would mean that Derek can’t claim emancipation.” And that’s if Mom manages to forgive Laura (and Derek) for her screaming about taking Derek away from her earlier.

Neither of them speak for a long moment, and Laura takes the opportunity to reenter the room and reclaim the chair next to the bed. Derek has shifted slightly in his sleep, and he mumbles unintelligibly before starting to snore.

Laura blinks away her tears and says, “He’ll need therapy.”

Benjamin responds, “I’ll see if I can get some assistance for Derek, see if there’s any counselors available now to help him.”

“Benjamin, thank you.”

“Anything for you, babe.”

They exchange I-love-yous and goodbyes, and then Laura settles into her chair to wait for Derek to wake up.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If interested in beta-ing this story, please drop a line at my [Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated.
> 
> There is rape in this chapter. Click to end notes for story spoilers.

~ * ~

Cora packs neatly—well, neater than usual for her—for the science camp she plans to attend this Friday. She carefully folds t-shirts, jeans, shorts, underwear, and her training bra. And when it still doesn’t fit, she sits on the suitcase’s lid and zips it shut.

All she has left to do is ask Mom to drive her into town tomorrow so she can mail the attendance fee. She stamps down the stab of guilt she feels over how she came by the money. Mom doesn’t care if she takes things from Derek, so why should she?

She thunders down the steps with the suitcase banging along behind her and shoves it under the table in the entryway, ready to grab when Mom will inevitably be running late to shuttle her down to Sacramento for orientation.

That is, if Mom takes the time. She might just have to tap Mrs. Votsky for the trip. She really does not want to do that. Mrs. Votsky is a horrendous driver who has no idea of the traffic laws. Or, at least, it seems like she doesn’t. She hasn’t been in an accident that Cora knows about, but whenever she has to ride with Benjamin’s mother, it always seems like a near thing.

Just as she is turning to go back to her room, to maybe try her hand at that gumdrop-and-toothpick bridge she’d seen on an old children’s television show, the phone rings.

Cora is not supposed to answer the phone. She’s only eleven, going on twelve—but not until September. Peter is in charge right now, but he is hiding in his room with his girlfriend, Kate. He gets mad if he is interrupted, so she grabs the receiver and barks, “Hale residence.”

She doesn’t want to be on the phone, breaking Mom’s rules. She has seen what happens to those who break Mom’s rules—they get kicked out of the family, like Laura, or belittled and demeaned, like Derek. Although, she doesn’t really know what rule he broke.

“Hi,” a man says. “With whom am I speaking?” His voice is slightly familiar, but she still would classify him as a stranger.

It’s a Red Flag Situation. Mom has another rule that if she absolutely has to answer the phone, because Mom understands that Peter is busy when Kate is visiting, and Kate is _always_ visiting, she is never to give out her real name.

“Hang on,” she says, digging through the stack of notes by the phone, trying to find the script that Derek uses on telemarketers. She finds it under a pile of envelopes addressed to Mom from Derek. Weird. “This is Sheila,” she finally says. When Derek reads it, he is ‘Owen.’

The man laughs, but it sounds wrong, like he’s trying not to cry at the same time. Mom sometimes sounds like that when she talks about Laura. “Cora, please put an adult on the phone.”

She hangs up. How did he know her real name?

Thoroughly unnerved, she runs up the stairs, flying past her room, to pound on Peter’s door. Screw the fact that he’s busy fucking right now; he is the adult in charge.

The phone starts ringing again, and she hits the door harder, trying to be heard over the new age music he and Kate use when they are in his room alone. Cora yells his name when he doesn’t respond.

The door jerks opens to reveal Kate, hastily dressed in Peter’s poorly buttoned shirt. Behind her, Cora can see the bare arm of her uncle tethered to the bedpost by a coiled length of pure white rope.

“Phone’s ringing for Peter,” she says, tone icy. She has never liked Kate. Her eyes are always sharp and calculating. And she makes Derek uncomfortable with her touches and flirty winks, even when she is standing next to Peter.

“Well, he’s a little indisposed right now,” Kate says. She blows a kiss over her shoulder at Peter before shoving Cora back even though she isn’t in the way of the door and heading for the stairs. Without Kate there to block her view, Cora stares at Peter.

He is completely naked with both his arms and legs tied so that he is spread. He has a black blindfold tied over his eyes and a red ball in his mouth. He is sniffling like he’s crying, and Cora can see where Kate has been scratching his chest.

His penis is erect, and Cora tries to avert her gaze from the silver rod sticking out of the slit at the top.

“Close the damn door!” Kate snaps, making Cora jump. She does so, turning to face a white-faced Kate standing by the bed. “It’s the sheriff. Apparently, they found your brother. I’m going to free Peter and then we’ll go down to the station.”

“Why do we have to?” Cora isn’t trying to be insolent, although from the sour expression on Kate’s face, she’s failing. “Usually, when Derek runs away, Mom and Dad go get him and bring him back.”

Derek runs away a lot. He never tells Cora where he spends the nights he isn’t home, but Mrs. Votsky and Laura usually tell her if Mom and Dad collect him at the house or the apartment.

“Maybe your parents are having Derek arrested then,” Kate says, snidely. She backs Cora to the door and then pushes her out. She shuts the door behind her and turns off the music. Peter’s sudden shriek startles Cora, and she barges back into the room to find Kate sitting on Peter’s penis, the red ball in her hand. His blindfold has either fallen off or been pulled free and it hangs around his neck like a gangrenous wound.

“Get out!” Kate screams at her, throwing the ball at her head. Peter sobs at the movement.

“Get off him!” Cora shouts back. She grabs the first thing she sees, a large, purple, silicone replica of her uncle’s penis. Kate cocks a brow before rising up slightly and sitting down hard. Peter moans in pain. Cora jumps at the bed, swinging the fake penis as hard as she can. Kate must be stupid because she just lets it hit her in the face.

Her nose gushes blood, and she finally climbs off Peter, clutching at it. At first, Cora thinks Kate removed the rod, like she did with the ball, but a few seconds of agonized grunting from Peter reveals it had just been pushed all the way into his penis.

“You broke my nose!” Kate says thickly. “Oh, my God! You broke my nose!” She heads out of the room, probably to go to the bathroom, and Cora slams the door and locks it.

Then, she digs through Peter’s discarded pants, halfway under the bed, until she finds his cell phone. With shaking fingers, she dials 9-1-1.

“Cora, Cora, Cora,” Peter moans, writhing in his bonds. “Cora, please.”

She doesn’t know what he is begging for. Oddly, she thinks, Derek would know. She has caught Kate sneaking out of her brother’s room when she stays the night a few times. Cora thinks that is why Derek runs away at night. She hasn’t told anyone, not even Derek, that she knows about Kate bothering him.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency,” a woman with a bland tone states and Cora fumbles the phone onto speaker.

“Hello, yes!” she cries. “My uncle and I have been trapped by a maniac. We’re stuck in his room. He’s hurt.”

“Can you provide any more information?” the woman asks, more energy in her tone. Cora imagines a soccer mom-type sitting forward, interested in the gossip she can gather. “I need your name and address, honey. Can you tell me that?”

Cora snorts but hurries to say, “Cora Hale. 1858 Preserve Drive. Please send an ambulance.”

“Stay on the line, Cora, honey,” the woman says, more mom than soccer mom now.

“Cora, please,” Peter hisses. Cora sets the phone on the side table, making sure it stays on speaker phone. She yanks out Peter’s sock drawer and digs though it until she finds a blue-handled pocketknife. Peter stares at it fearfully when she uses it to cut the ropes on his wrists and ankles.

“Do you want me to…?” she points at the rod still sticking out of his penis. Peter nods, flushing.

“Use gloves,” he advises. “They’re in the drawer too.” Cora finds them quickly, wondering briefly why they are pitch black before pulling them on as fast as the latex lets her. Then, gently, she grasps the top half of Peter’s penis and starts working the rod free. Peter moans and groans the whole time it moves, until finally, with a sigh of relief from both of them, it comes out and she lays it next to the phone on the table.

“Honey,” the phone says at the same time something—Kate—hits the door. “Where in the house are you?”

“Back bedroom, second floor,” Peter says. He is kneeling on the bed when Cora looks at him. He reaches behind himself to do something Cora is positive she is not supposed to know about yet. Kate is still trying to break down the door, slamming against it again and again. “We’re on the south side of the house,” Peter continues with a soft grunt as he pulls another, smaller, replica of his penis out from behind his back. This one is blue, and Cora stares at the blood and fecal matter clinging to it. Peter ignores her, tossing it aside and saying to the phone, “I don’t know if she is armed.”

Peter starts dressing, red underwear, black slacks, a dark blue v-neck t-shirt. Cora just watches him. He had a rod in his penis less than five minutes ago. And apparently, he’d had something in his butthole too. He catches her staring and shrugs, a lopsided grin curling half of his mouth.

Kate’s banging abruptly stops, and Peter looks worried. He grabs Cora’s arm and drags her into his closet, shoving her down and pushing coats and t-shirts over her. He raises a finger to his lips to order her to be quiet, and for once, she listens to him. He drapes one last shirt over her face and closes the door.

Frightened because her normally nonchalant uncle is obviously rattled, Cora stifles her breathing and lies motionless beneath the clothes.

Seconds, minutes, hours later, she hears the bedroom door open, and a new voice say, “Where is she, Peter?”

It isn’t Kate. It is the man who knew her name, the one on the phone earlier.

Cora holds her breath. What if he is working with Kate? What if Kate is waiting to do to her what she did to Peter?

The closet door flies open, and Cora bites back a whimper.

“Cora?” Peter says, and he sounds so unlike himself, soft where normally he is hard, young, even though she knows he’s at least twice her age. He reaches in and tugs the shirt off her face.

The man standing next to him, an arm wrapped protectively around Peter’s shoulders, is Sheriff Stilinski. She recognizes him from the talks he does at her school during Hero Week.

Cora lets out a sob and launches herself at Peter. The Sheriff puts a hand on her head.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now.”

“Did you catch Kate?” Cora asks, muffled, as her face is still pressed against Peter’s chest.

“She’s on the run right now,” the Sheriff says, “but we won’t let her get anywhere close to you.”

It sounds like a promise, but Derek always tells her adult promises mean nothing. Cora has tested it and found that, as usual, he is right. She’s still waiting on a ten-speed bike and a puppy.

Wait, her brother. Kate had said something about the Sheriff finding him and arresting him. What if Kate goes after him too?

“Derek?” she asks, horrified, wondering now if Kate has ever touched Derek the way she’s touched Peter. Probably, now that she’s thinking about it.

“I’ll leave that up to your parents to tell you,” the Sheriff says, “but he is safe. He is,” he firmly insists to the disbelief on Peter’s face. “In fact, I’m going to take you to him now.”

Peter grips Cora tighter, hugging her harder. “What will you do to Kate when you find her?” he asks. Cora pushes away from him to glare at him. Does he really care more about his stupid girlfriend than his own family?

She scoffs and stalks away, passing a pair of EMTs heading for her uncle. She gets all the way downstairs and to the foyer before she realizes that the Sheriff has followed her.

“You have suspicions,” he says, “about what has happened to your brother.”

“No,” she says. With conviction, she says, “Kate hurt him.” She searches her memory for every interaction between Kate and Derek that she witnessed, seeing each one in a new light. Recalls the months of Derek flinching away from people, of him making excuses to leave the house when Kate is there, of Derek actually running the fuck away. “She really hurt him.”

The Sheriff nods, like he understands it, like he gets how she knows without a doubt about what Kate did to Derek.

“Okay,” she says, even though it is not. It’s the furthest from okay she has ever felt. But, there is only one thing to do: take a deep breath and keep moving. “Let’s go.”

~ * ~

Derek wakes up all at once to a shouting match being held next to his bed. He blinks blearily up at the ceiling, noting that the overhead bulbs have been dimmed, but that the curtains covering the windows are open, letting in the early evening light.

There is a heavy weight tucked against his left side, and it sighs when he pokes it.

“Cora,” he whispers, throat clicking with dryness as he swallows. The weight lifts and his younger sister’s face appears above him.

“Derek,” she says, ducking back down to curl against his side again. The yelling stops abruptly. He turns his head to see Mom, Dad, and Laura standing by the bed.

“Derek!” Mom cries, reaching out to touch him. He skitters away as best he can, blocked by Cora on his left and with a useless leg on his right.

“Mom,” Laura says quietly, menacingly, sliding between the bed and Mom’s hand. “We talked about this: you don’t approach Derek unless he says it’s okay.”

“But,” Mom begins.

“Fuck off,” Cora says, and all eyes snap to her. Mom recoils, a hand on her heart, while Dad looks furious.

“Where did you learn that word, sweetie?” Mom asks. Derek feels his lungs freeze and he can’t breathe. It does not matter that the endearment is not aimed at him. It still makes him feel like his heart is going to explode, beating too fast in his chest.

“Where do you think?” Cora retorts angrily, pressing harder against Derek’s side—the only indication that she is terrified. Derek runs a hand down her arm, letting her burrow into him with her sharp elbows and knobby knees.

Mom and Dad look like they are about to start lecturing, and Derek, tired, frightened, and frankly, mad, bursts. “Leave her alone,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat, wishing it weren’t so dry. “She’s just trying to protect me.” From you, he doesn’t say.

Mom’s face blanks. “Sweetie,” she says, high-pitched—worried, Derek realizes. He has never seen his mom worried. “Cora, sweetheart, come away from your brother now.”

“Why?” Cora manages to simultaneously elbow Derek in the ribs and squeeze herself around him tighter.

Laura says, “If you think Derek would ever,” a look of horrified disgust crossing her features.

“I know Peter!” Mom interrupts. “I know exactly what he is capable of doing!”

“I’m not Peter,” Derek whispers. He blinks back a spring of tears, gripping Cora now as tightly as she is clinging to him. “I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

He wouldn’t. He _can’t_. He would _never_ put someone through what he goes through. It’s not fair of Mom to accuse him like that.

“What did Peter do?” Cora asks. There is something in her tone, some wisdom, that says she already knows. Her hand spasms on Derek’s and it makes him tear up again.

Dad answers Cora, saying, “Peter used to touch Derek inappropriately.”

It feels like the room is spinning, like the world is dying. Like Derek is dying.

“We stopped him and sent him to a rehabilitation center when Derek was three,” Dad continues, conviction on his face but not in his voice. “He came back cured.”

Derek shakes his head as the tears start falling. “No,” he whispers, “not cured.” He begins crying in earnest, sobbing. “He never stopped—he just got better at hiding it.”

“Get out!” Laura screams suddenly, startling Derek enough that he lets out a little wail. Cora burrows into him, butting her head against his side rhythmically. Laura stomps at Mom and Dad, shoving and pushing them toward the door. “Get out and never come back! You are not our parents!”

Derek sits up, dislodging Cora unintentionally, and stares at his hundred-and-twenty-five pound, five-foot-six sister standing up to his flabbergasted parents.

“If you’ve ever loved any of us, get the fuck out and never contact us again.”

The door bangs open, and three Beacon County officers, Mrs. McCall, and a hospital security guard storm in. Derek nearly sobs in relief when he realizes that the officers are the Sheriff, Deputy Jordan, and Laura’s boyfriend Benjamin.

The Sheriff glances around the room quickly before pointing at Mom and Dad. The hospital guard and Deputy Jordan each grab an arm and escort them out. Benjamin approaches Laura, arms held out for a hug. She falls against him, crying loudly, like she used up all her energy kicking out Mom and Dad.

Derek knows how she feels.

“I can’t believe they chose Peter over Derek,” Laura says to Benjamin. Silently, Cora grasps Derek’s hand, squeezing in comfort.

The Sheriff looks both furious and tired at the same time. “Are you up for answering some questions?” he asks, kindly. Derek shakes his head while Cora nods. “When Deputy Parrish returns, he will talk with Laura and Cora while I will speak with you, Derek.”

Mrs. McCall offers a wan smile for Derek. “I’ll stay in the room, if you like,” she offers. He nods gratefully, and she says, “You are brave, and I’m proud of you.”

Laura lifts her head from Benjamin’s chest and says, “Always. I will _always_ love you, Derek. _Always_.”

“Me too,” Cora says, tucking her head under his chin. “Love you.”

Before Derek can respond, Deputy Jordan is back. At a look from the Sheriff, he leads Laura and Cora out to the hall. Benjamin moves to sit beside Derek on the bed. He lets Derek ignore his hand laying on the blanket next to his.

The Sheriff clears his throat with an awkward grunt. “I heard the tail end of the conversation. You up to explaining what’s going on?”

“No,” Derek whispers. He twists the bedsheet in his hands, trying not to start crying again. “But,” he continues, hoarsely, “I think this is one of those times that it’s best if I do.” He tries to take a steadying breath only to find the air isn’t getting to his lungs. He gasps wetly, and Benjamin leans over, swinging his legs onto the bed and wrapping an arm around Derek’s shoulders.

“My uncle, Peter…He touches me. A lot. In pl-places that h-he shouldn’t, he t-told me he would do the same to Cora if I told. So I didn’t tell until today.” He shrugs, tension burning in his shoulders. Benjamin hugs him tightly.

“Do you think your parents were aware of what Peter was doing?”

“Maybe?” He thinks they must have convinced themselves that he really was cured. “They don’t really pay attention to me unless I’m doing something they don’t like.”

“Such as?” the Sheriff prompts.

Derek stares up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the increasing pressure of the panic building in his chest. He is being so bad, talking shit about his parents. He touches the bruise on his cheek and strengthens his resolve. “We had allowances, for doing chores. I would spend mine on lunches for some of the kids at school who didn’t have anything else to eat. Apparently, that was ‘wasteful’ so they took it away and demanded I pay them back.”

“Don’t they fund a bunch of charities that do that exact thing on a larger scale?” the Sheriff asks, and Derek nods. “Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.

“Derek,” Mrs. McCall butts in gently, “does Peter ever do more than touch?”

It would be so much easier keep his mouth shut, to let the question vanish into the silence and pretend he didn’t hear her. But, almost by itself, his mouth opens and releases the word, “Yes.”

Immediately, Derek wants to grab it and shove it so deep inside his throat that to let it out again would be tantamount to dying. Mrs. McCall looks like someone slapped her while the Sheriff looks like he is about to explode.

“Can you tell us what he does exactly?” the Sheriff asks.

Derek shakes his head. He trembles in Benjamin’s arms, shivering too hard to unlock his jaw and say anything else.

“Please,” Mrs. McCall says, heartbroken, blinking back tears. “I need you to tell us what he does so that he can be stopped. So we can make sure he never does it again.”

Finally, Derek works his jaw open. “He likes to put things in me. In my penis too. He uses straws or rods. Then he puts his penis in me.” Derek’s whisper is so soft that he isn’t sure he is speaking out loud. The only indication that his audience can hear him is the way the Sheriff and Mrs. McCall bristle with anger and the way Benjamin’s arms tighten around him.

Derek shivers harder, shoving against Benjamin’s chest as the panic swells again. “Off,” he says. Cries, really, snot and tears running down his face. “Off, off, off, off.”

Benjamin is across the room before the second off, but Derek can still feel his arms around him, can feel, not the comfort Benjamin was trying to offer, but the fear Peter and Kate inspired.

He feels Kate holding him down so she can thrust firmly into him with her strap-on. He feels Peter holding him still so he can work a vibrator in alongside his penis. Derek moans, shifting with the remembered pain they inflicted.

A hand lands on his arm, and he shrieks.

“Sorry,” someone says, frantically patting at him. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” It’s Cora, back to burrow into his side. He grabs her, pulls her in close, and tries to rock them both.

Laura says, “Derek, I am going to touch you now.” He stops moving and looks at her. He watches as she deliberately raises her hand, fingers spread to show him that it’s empty. Kate does that too, sometimes, shows him an empty hand while her other one conceals a clover-clamp or a needle. He glances to Laura’s other hand, and relaxes slightly when he sees she is holding Benjamin’s hand. Her boyfriend has his free hand spread like Laura’s.

Satisfied that they won’t hurt him, Derek nods. Laura rests her hand gently on his hands clasped around Cora’s back. If he wanted, he could wriggle free from her.

“Derek, I am so sorry that this has happened to you,” Laura says. “And I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to make sure it will never happen again.” She lifts her hand slowly, moving it toward his face. “I want to comfort you as _you_ need it. Let me know what is and isn’t okay. I will not get mad at you for it.”

Her hand shakes, hovering over him. “I want to pet your head. Is that okay?”

Wordlessly, Derek nods, flinching a little when her hand makes contact with the crown of his head. At first, it is weird, her fingers tugging gently through his hair, but the longer she does it, the better it feels.

“I love you,” he blurts when she goes to pull away. “And I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says, perhaps more firmly than she means to, if her wince is anything to go by. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I love you,” Cora pipes up. “I wish I had told on Kate sooner.” She hides her face against Derek’s shoulder. “I knew she made you uncomfortable, and I still didn’t tell.”

“Honestly,” Derek says into her crooked part, that he usually fixes for her, “I don’t know if anyone would have believed you. I don’t blame you. You either,” he says to Laura. “I don’t want to go back,” he whispers.

“Never,” Laura promises. “Never again.”

The Sheriff clears his throat. “I’m going to arrest Peter now,” he says. “I have to be honest: I think Kate will use Peter’s abuse against Derek to diminish her own. I hope she will not be successful, but I cannot promise anything. Much as I want to. However,” he says, determinedly, “I promised she wouldn’t hurt Derek anymore and I stand by that. Get some rest—the shit storm is still coming.”

Then he, Deputy Jordan, and Nurse McCall leave the room.

“We do have to get your clothes from the house,” Laura says softly. “Benjamin, can you go see if Derek is close to being released, please?”

“I don’t want to go there,” Derek says. He doesn’t want to have to face Mom and Dad and have them know that he told on them, that Mom might get in trouble for the bruise on his cheek. He also doesn’t want to be accused of hurting Cora again. He doesn’t need the extra betrayal.

“You’ll stay in the car,” Laura says. “It’s not like you would be of much help in carrying things with your crutches.”

“I don’t want to go back either,” Cora says.

“Then I guess you won’t get to pick out your favorite clothes,” Laura says, calmly, looking at her nails nonchalantly and smiling as Cora pops her head up to stare at her. “Or your magazines,” she continues. Cora frowns at her.

“Fine,” Derek decides, patting Cora until she lies down again. “We’ll go with you. Cora will pack her room, and I’ll stay in the car. Deal?”

“Deal.” Laura kisses Cora’s forehead and, when Derek nods, kisses his too.

It doesn’t feel wrong, like all the other touches, but he isn’t sure he’s ready to let her do anything else right now. And before she can ask, Benjamin comes back with a new nurse and some paperwork.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story Spoiler: Kate rapes Peter.  
>    
> Let me know if I missed something.
> 
> Thank you to all who read, subscribe, and kudos this story.
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	7. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to be that nagging author begging for comments, but seriously, am I doing something wrong, something right?
> 
> Let me know!
> 
> And if you need further encouragement, check [this](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/155437976185/venting-broken-beautiful-posting) and [this](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/155470723375/broken-beautiful-the-process) out.

~ * ~

Allison is washing carrots for her dad to peel when her aunt storms into the house. She thunders past the kitchen and is already halfway up the stairs when Dad calls her back.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?” he demands when she reappears in the doorway. He points at Kate’s face, and Allison gasps at the bruises surrounding both eyes and her swollen nose.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Kate spits. She glares at Dad and stamps her foot. Kate has always been dramatic. More so since she started hanging around Peter Hale.

“You assaulted someone, Kate,” Dad says, glancing over his shoulder at Allison. It makes her thinks he is purposefully not saying something.

“I didn’t do anything Peter didn’t want,” Kate says, haughty.

“I’m not talking about Peter,” Dad says, his tone going from helpful to mad in an instant.

Fear flashes across Kate’s face, and it is the first time Allison thinks she has ever seen her aunt with that emotion. “You can’t believe I did that,” she hisses. “I wouldn’t touch that boy with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” Dad raises an eyebrow. “Then why is there a warrant for your arrest?”

“Already?” Kate frowns.

“Already?” Allison repeats numbly. Kate was expecting to be arrested?

“Obviously,” Kate snorts. “Oh, that’s rich—the Hales getting their buddies to come after me just because I was hired as the new swim coach instead of their daughter. Typical.” She throws her head back and laughs, but it sounds fake to Allison, like Kate is trying too hard to play it off as normal.

“Wait,” Allison says, shaking her head to dislodge her aunt’s ugly laugh. “‘That boy’?” She thinks a bit more, back to the boys that Kate would hang around. Only one stands out. “Derek?”

Kate flashes her a sharp smile. “That brat is running around claiming I raped him. As if.”

“That is enough, Kate,” Dad says. He lunges at her, catching her by the wrist before she can run away. “Allison, go call Sheriff Stilinski—the number is by the landline.”

“The Sheriff?!” Kate screeches, fighting to free her arm. “Oh, hell no! That man wants my head on a stake. You can’t turn me in, Chris. I’m your sister!”

“All the more reason to do so,” Dad says, calmly. “Allison, go.”

With a last look at her aunt, still trying to break Dad’s grip, Allison hurries to the living room and picks up the God-awful mustard-colored receiver Mom picked out to match their ugly-ass yellow couch.

She finds a sticky note with the Sheriff’s name and number taped to the base. She dials the number with surprisingly steady fingers.

“Stilinski,” a man barks into the phone after a single ring.

“Hi, yes, Sheriff?” Too bad her fingers are the only things steady, Allison laments, wincing at her warbling tone.

“You got me,” the man says.

“My aunt came home,” she says after a deep breath, which seems to help calm her. “This is Allison Argent. My dad told me to call you.”

“Allison?” His tone smacks of relief. “Your aunt—Kate—she’s there right now?”

“Yeah. My dad’s holding onto her.”

“Good, good. Listen, good job calling us. We’ll be there to take her off your hands in less than ten minutes.”

He hangs up before she can say anything else, so she replaces the receiver and goes back to the kitchen doorway.

In the time it took her to make the phone call, Dad has managed to drag Kate to the banister for the stairs and handcuff her to the newel post.

Kate is red raced and sobbing loudly.

“I didn’t do it!” she blubbers, but Dad looks even more furious every time she opens her mouth.

“You didn’t, huh? Then why are they looking for you? If you didn’t do anything to Derek Hale, why is he in the hospital?”

“I don’t know!” she wails. “I told you, the Hales hate me because I beat out their daughter for Lahey’s old spot.”

“Laura Hale hasn’t lived with her parents for six years,” Dad says coldly. “I serve with Talia Hale on City Council. Not once, in all the years I’ve known her, has she mentioned her daughter. Laura teaches dance at _Emilio’s_. She has never applied to Beacon Hills High School. I suggest you stop lying before the police arrive, or you’re just going to be in more trouble. You know, Talia likes to tell me what a good influence you are on her brother, but I’m beginning to think neither of you is any good.”

“The Sheriff said ten minutes,” Allison pipes up. Already, though, she thinks can hear sirens. Well, technically, he did say less than ten minutes.

“Don’t let them railroad me,” Kate begs. She pins Allison with an intense stare, and Allison averts her eyes.

“Go wait in your room,” Dad tells her. “I’ll let you know when you can come down.”

Allison nods, skirting around Kate’s hunched form. As she crosses the upstairs balcony to head for her bedroom, she hears a knock and then a low murmur of voices as Dad lets in the Sheriff. She shuts her door and crawls under the bed, determined not to cry. Not for Kate or Derek.

She fails on both counts.

~ * ~

Kate goes quiet once Allison is no longer in the room. There’s still time to get out of this. All she needs to do is act a bit.

Chris leaves her chained to the stairs while he lets the Sheriff enter, inviting him in like he’s the treasured family member.

Three sets of feet clack loudly across the hardwood floor before they come to a stop in front of her. Her brother stands back, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at her with utter contempt. The Sheriff eyes her, taking in her battered face and the cuff locking her left wrist to the newel post. Behind him, a young deputy quakes. She’d bet money that this is his first time responding to a callout like this. He seems the soft type who works behind a desk and answers the phone.

The Sheriff snaps his fingers in her face, and she scowls at him, wrinkling her nose at until the pain of the broken appendage stops her. He leans close to her to examine her more carefully, tutting softly at the bruises that little bitch left on her.

It’s obvious Derek broke his promise to her and for that she will have to punish him. Unfortunately for her, the Sheriff seems just as disinclined as her brother to unlock the cuff around her wrist.

“Katherine Argent,” he says, settling back on his haunches, “you are under arrest for the rape of Peter Hale.” He digs in his pockets until he finds a cardstock square covered in blocky text. He shoves it under her nose and recites it dully. It’s a fucking Miranda Card. Not that Kate wasn’t expecting one. She just wasn’t expecting it from Peter, that fucking, lying bastard.

She frowns down at it, pretending to read it along with him. She signs it when the timid deputy tucks a pen into her free hand. He takes it back quickly, pocketing the card too while Chris steps forward and finally unlocks the cuff. She rubs her wrist before the Sheriff catches her arm and attaches his own pair of handcuffs.

Kate thinks of screaming, of fighting against the officers, but she decides the time for theatrics has passed. Especially since her greatest ally has been sent to her room like the child she is.

The Sheriff leads her out of Chris’ house, heading for a crookedly parked cruiser. She snorts, amused. Upholders of the law indeed.

“Oh,” the Sheriff says, pausing while the deputy opens the backseat door, “you’re under arrest for the rape and assault of Derek Hale. You still understand your rights?” She nods. Here it is. “Good girl. We’ll inform you again of them at the station and have you sign a new Miranda Card. For now, watch your head.” She lets herself be pushed into the vehicle. It’s starting to become real, she thinks. Her activities are catching up to her. She rues the day she met Peter Hale, that slimy, manipulative ass-face. Well, if her father’s lawyer can’t get her off on both sets of charges, she’s taking him down with her.

Revenge will be hers.

~ * ~

Of course, Kate Argent denies any misconduct with Derek Hale. She also keeps stating that she has never touched that boy and that the uncle asked for what she did to him.

Well, Peter is a different story. Right now, John just wants to focus on Kate, get her squared away so that he can at least pretend to keep his promise to Derek.

He is not so naïve to think she won’t get bail, but hopefully, he can convince the prosecuting attorney to make it a stipulation of her release to not have contact with persons under the age of eighteen. It will mean she can be placed in a halfway house instead where he can keep a better eye on her. Peter, on the other hand, has already been agreed upon to continue living with his sister while Laura and Votsky will house Cora and Derek.

Unfortunately for Talia and James, John fully intends to arrest and have them charged for their involvement, or rather, their non-involvement, in Derek’s abuse.

He is not looking forward to that conversation.

John checks his watch once Kate is locked in a holding cell, too late for her to be arraigned today. She will probably be first on the docket tomorrow or the day after. Same with Peter who is spending the night handcuffed to his hospital bed with a guard on the door.

It is almost 8:00 now. Claudia and Stiles will have been home for hours. There is nothing more he can do tonight, so he grabs an incoming deputy and tells her he’s going home, but to call him if anything happens with the prisoner in Cell One.

Then, he goes home. It feels anticlimactic to be climbing out of his patrol car in his driveway when he knows there are still hurdles in his case. The evidence in Sacramento will be in next week, so he may have jumped the gun with arresting Kate if not for the fact that she was caught in the act of raping Peter. Which she is being charged with separately from the charges of raping Derek. Jesus, it’s a headache.

He sighs and tries to let the tension drop off his shoulders before he opens the door and walk into his house.

Claudia, pale and shaking, meets him as he is hanging up his jacket. Behind her, Stiles keeps miming something, but John has always sucked at charades.

“John,” Claudia says tearfully as Stiles rolls his eyes. “I have a confession to make.”

“She thinks she’s responsible for Kate Argent hurting Derek Hale,” Stiles bursts out. So that’s what spinning a finger next to his head means. “She won’t listen when I tell her that’s ridiculous.”

Claudia glares at Stiles before turning back to John. He’s not surprised to see the tears start falling down her cheeks. “Kate would ask for advice on how to get her boyfriend to behave in the bedroom, so I gave her some ideas—ideas she then used on Derek.”

“And Peter,” John says thoughtfully. “She probably applied it to both of them.  
 Claudia wails into her hands, and John blinks at her, stricken. “But,” he rushes to assure her, “that doesn’t make it your fault. You didn’t know who her boyfriend was or what her true nature is.”

Claudia doesn’t look convinced, so John points at himself. “If I tell a deputy to respond to a callout and that deputy is injured at that callout, is it _my_ fault?”

“No,” Claudia says immediately. “But that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.”

“No,” John agrees. “It makes you human.”

~ * ~

When Benjamin and Jordan Parrish are finally off duty for the night, they go with Laura and Cora to the Hale house to get the supplies Laura thinks they will need to help house Derek and Cora and whatever other possessions they can cram into two police cruisers and her tiny Ford. Derek stays in the front seat of her car, shaking despite the heavy jacket Benjamin drapes over his shoulders and the still-warm temperature of 8:30 at night.

He has his backpack, retrieved from the jimmied locker he’d stashed it in earlier, sitting on his feet, and he has a hand clutching one of the straps. In his other hand, he holds Jordan’s cell phone, Laura’s number already punched in, all he has to do is press send, if Mom or Dad or, God forbid, Kate or Peter bother him.

So far, Kate and Peter are both still in jail or under guard, according to Jordan, and Mom and Dad are still sitting at the dining room table, holding hands and ignoring all of them as Benjamin and Jordan carry boxes filled with Cora’s clothes, science projects, stuffed animals, and blankets.

Cora dives into the space under Derek’s bed and comes out clutching a battered set of stuffed black wolves. The matching third one is on a shelf at Laura’s apartment. They were gifts from Nana Hale when Mom announced she was pregnant with Laura. Derek’s wolf is in the worst shape of the three, and Laura remembers all the times she would wake up in the middle of the night to find him watching quietly as Mom or Dad stripped the sheets off his bed and threw them and the wolf into the washer. She wants to slap her parents when she realizes that Derek used to be a chronic bed wetter, one of the more common and recognized signs of sexual abuse sufferers.

Instead, she channels her anger into cleaning out the rest of Derek’s room. It breaks her heart that there are only two boxes filled, one of clothes, the other of personal items like his old baseball mitt and a necklace from camp when he was eight. Benjamin carries both boxes while Jordan grabs the quilt from the bed, folding it deftly and adding it to his stack of plush blankets from Cora’s room.

Grandma Hale, Nana’s daughter-in-law, made each of the grandkids quilts. Like the wolf, Derek’s is in the roughest shape. Laura breathes deeply, but the calming exercise is not working, and shocked, she realizes she doesn’t want it to.

Before they leave, Laura stops in front of their parents and deliberately releases the spare key she only had for emergencies from her own set and throws it on the table.

“If you ever try talking to any of us again, I’ll have you sued so fast your heads will pop off. Do not contact us even if you are dying.”

“They are our children,” Mom begins, rising from her seat. Dad tightens his grip on her hand.

“You should have acted like it then,” Laura counters. A flash of anger goes over Dad’s face, but he wrestles it back to a blank mask while Mom lunges at Laura. Immediately, Benjamin steps between them, pushing her back into her seat.

Mom takes a deep breath. “Peter was reformed.” Laura has to wonder if it sounds as hollow to Mom as it does to her. “He was cured, and he had nowhere else to go.”

“He could have gone to live with Grandma.”

Mom shakes her head. “Peter confessed his thoughts to her before we sent him to the rehabilitation center, and she disowned him. We thought it was unnecessary, so we cut her out of our lives.”

Dad says, quietly, eye downcast, “She passed away last year.”

Laura stares at them. “And you didn’t think to tell us? She was our grandmother!”

Mom—Talia—the bitch will never have the title Mom again as long as Laura breathes, she vows—shrugs, and frustrated, Laura stomps away from them before she decks either one and Benjamin will have to arrest her.

She makes it to the door when Talia suddenly calls out, “If Peter relapsed, Derek must have caused it.”

Benjamin grabs her arm and shoves her outside, closing the door so she can’t go back inside and tear them to pieces. He points at her car, and her anger switches to concern when she notices that Jordan is kneeling next to the open passenger door, talking Derek out of a panic attack.

For a moment, she thinks he must have heard what Talia said, but when she gets to the car, she realizes the sound wouldn’t have carried over the distance. Small mercies.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, trying to keep her voice even. Cora latches onto her arm and tugs until they can both lean in to see Derek’s white face. His breath is still hitching, but he seems to be settling.

“I saw Peter’s car,” Derek mumbles, refusing to look at anyone, like he is embarrassed. “I forgot that he’s not here. I was all alone, and I thought he would approach me.” Like usual, Laura finishes in her head. Her heart hurts.

“Let’s go,” she says. “The sooner we get out of here.”

The boxes are all loaded up. All it takes is buckling Derek’s seatbelt because his fingers are too clumsy to work the clasp and turning over the engine.

The drive is quiet because Derek refuses to speak to her, choosing instead to stare out his window into the dark. Cora is riding with Benjamin in his cruiser. Only because her backseat is packed with boxes, she’s sure.

Laura only tries once to say anything, and it falls flat because all she can hear is Talia’s accusation ringing in her ears that Derek is somehow to blame for the abuse he has suffered.

At the apartment, all the boxes are carried upstairs and placed in the spare room where Benjamin starts blowing up an air mattress with their tiny automatic pump. Jordan carries Derek bridal-style up the stairs and sets him on the couch. Cora carries the crutches and leans them against the wall before sitting next to Derek and leaning into his side.

Jordan waves goodbye and leaves his cell number pinned to the refrigerator with a periodic table magnet Cora made as a craft at one of her camps. Once the door shuts, Derek stretches his foot out and rests it on the coffee table. He wriggles his toes and glares at the walking cast sullenly.

Laura remembers the broken arm he had about a year ago and doesn’t recall it impeding his jobs at all. It will be near impossible to mow lawns with his casted foot, and forget about riding his bike.

Cora stands up and disappears into the guest room. When she comes back, she stands on the other side of the table from Derek and shifts from foot to foot. “Derek,” she says softly. Behind her back, Laura can see that she is holding a small satchel gifted the Christmas before.

Derek looks up, brows low over his eyes as he takes in her obviously guilty posture. She thrusts the bag at him, leaning forward to drop it into his lap. He picks it up gingerly, opening it. His eyebrows shoot up, and he pulls something out of it before tossing it back to her.

“But,” Cora says.

Derek shakes his head. “I know how much you wanted to go. I’m not taking that from you.”

“But,” she says again, gesturing wildly. Laura takes the bag from her before it goes flying. “But, I took it from you!”

Laura glances into the bag, a little shocked to see a neat bundle of twenty-dollar bills.

“And you will pay me back when you get a job thanks to science camp.” Derek rolls the object he took in his hands, and Laura recognizes it as a wooden medallion Grandpa carved for Grandma for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. It was given to Derek by Grandma on his thirteenth birthday. For Laura’s thirteenth she got a ring made for her grandparents’ tenth anniversary. Next year, Cora will get a bracelet carved for their thirtieth anniversary. Laura already has it in a box behind her stuffed wolf.

“I can still go?” Cora lights up, turning to Laura hopefully. “I already got Mom to sign off on it—she wouldn’t do it until I came up with the funds myself.” Cora gives Derek a sad frown. And Laura sees red again.

“You’re good at these camps,” she says. “And they wouldn’t pay for it?” She reaches out to Derek, belatedly pulling back when she realizes she didn’t warn him, and that he’s flinching badly.

She turns back to Cora. “Talia slapped Derek when she thought he’d stolen from me. Did she do anything to you?”

“I didn’t tell her,” Derek says, quietly. “I didn’t notice Cora had taken my stash until I went to grab it.”

Cora looks guilty, but Derek just shrugs at her, patting the seat next to him. She sits carefully, aware of his injured foot still stretched onto the table.

“I’m not going to demand you pay it back right away,” he tells her. “I just wish you had asked first—I would have given it to you.”

“I thought you were going to leave me behind,” Cora says, softly, folding down on herself. Laura waits for her to continue, but aside from glancing at her, Cora doesn’t.

“I wasn’t,” Derek says, the same furtive glance directed at Laura, and suddenly she gets it.

“I didn’t abandon you,” she says, a bit shortly, annoyed that she is now being tarred with the same brush as their parents. She did not attend Monday night dinners for six years just to be told she had given up on her siblings when they were the only reason she was still in Beacon Hills. She had scholarships. She was going to Berkeley.

“We didn’t say you had,” Derek says mildly. But, she sees how he leans into Cora, like he’s afraid of her. Of what, exactly, about her, she isn’t sure, but it stings like betrayal.

“I tried to get set up well enough so I could care for either of you if I ever got the chance.” She pauses to wipe at the sudden tears in her eyes. “It’s the whole reason I kept visiting,” she tells them, “to check on both of you. Talia was never going to let me take Cora so I focused more on Derek but…I wasn’t fast enough.”

“The beds are ready,” Benjamin interrupts. He wraps an arm around Laura’s shoulders, and she sinks into the comfort that he offers. “I think we will have better luck with conversations tomorrow. It’s late. Cora, your bed is in the guest room. Derek, you’re with us.”

At Derek’s raised brow, Benjamin nods at the crutches,. “Not a lot of room to use those in here. Figured it’d be easier to offer you assistance, if you need it, if you’re close.”

Cora hugs Derek and Laura before running off to grab her toothbrush so she can get ready for bed. Benjamin sinks into the space next to Derek and offers his shoulder for his head while he waits his turn. Laura sits on the armrest next to Benjamin and clasps their hands together.

After a few moments of quiet, only broken by Cora singing the Alphabet Song three times while she brushes her teeth and then washes her face, Derek whispers, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone about Peter or Kate.”

Laura moves to the coffee table, sitting by his foot. She reaches out so he can see her hand and then takes his hands to hold when he nods stiffly.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, determinedly. “I don’t care how many idiots are going to say things like that, like you should’ve spoken up. Fuck them. Seriously, don’t let what they say get to you. They don’t know you or your circumstances. They have no right to tell you you’ve done anything wrong when you’ve done everything right.”

“I should never have told on Mom and Dad though,” Derek mumbles. “They’re going to hate me forever.”

“So let them,” Laura says, feels the full body flinch her words inspire. “They aren’t important. If anything, you should hate them for how they’ve treated you.”

“Babe,” Benjamin says warningly, and she snaps back, lets Derek go. Her boyfriend turns to Derek and says, “I have someone I want you to talk to, okay, buddy? I’ll take you tomorrow.”

Derek nods, ducking his head, but Laura still sees the tears rolling down his face.

Before they can say anything else, Cora steps out of the bathroom. “I’m done,” she says, waving. “Good night.”

Derek hops up, hobbling toward the bathroom before Benjamin or Laura can help him. “Good night,” he says, stooping to hug Cora tightly before disappearing into the bathroom without his own toothbrush.

“It’ll be okay,” Benjamin says to Laura. “It will.”

“I wish it would be okay now,” she says. “I don’t know how much of this we can take.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been feeling really under the weather so it may not be as edited as I usually have it. If anything jumps out, please let me know. Also, still looking for a beta. Leave a comment if you'd be interested.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> As always, [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	8. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have made my decision. Since I am still in the process of writing it, I'm going to post through Chapter Nine (the end of the first notebook) and then just spend time working on writing without worrying about (final edits and) posting.
> 
> If you come across something that you think I should tag for but haven't, please let me know.

~ * ~

When Mrs. S. isn’t at the bakery, which isn’t all that often, Danny is usually left in charge. Going into his senior year and being newly turned eighteen means he is automatically more trustworthy than Allison and Lydia, sophomores, and Stiles and Scott, freshmen.

Today, though, they divvy up the responsibilities evenly. Stiles is busy training Coach Lahey’s kid in the kitchen while another new hire, big, silent sophomore Boyd follows Danny around. Allison elects herself in charge of the money and other administrative duties.

Mrs. S. is out with a headache, according to Stiles, who called them all in half an hour early today. They haven’t opened Lydia’s register, and instead, she is running Allison’s station while Allison runs change to her. Occasionally, Allison is called away to deal with a complaint, but mostly, she is trying to train yet another new hire, Erica Reyes, another freshman.

On top of the rush of regulars, they have a swarm of curious rubberneckers, looking for the Sheriff’s wife for gossip. And, in addition to those customers, they have the freaking book club.

Book club usually comes in once a month for three hours every third Wednesday, although they will see the members off and on throughout the month. Mrs. S. always has some new pastry for them to try. Today, Stiles has apple tarts and Allison has to keep carrying trays out to them.

Halfway through their discussion of a book drier than three-day old bread, a shouting match breaks out. Lydia locks the register and heads to the tables to find Mr. Simone, an English teacher at Devonford Prep, yelling at Mrs. Walsh, wife of the owner of the bike shop next door.

Lydia stands next to Allison, wrapping an arm around her shoulders when she realizes that her coworker is crying.

“She didn’t do it!” Mr. Simone insists loudly. Allison flinches and Lydia feels anger surging in her chest.

“Of course she did it!” Mrs. Walsh yells back. “They wouldn’t have arrested her if she hadn’t! Her own brother turned her in!”

Lydia clears her throat, and in the silence between shouts says, as frostily as she can manage, “If you don’t stop shouting, I will call the Sheriff and have you removed.” Both standing patrons turn to her, staring in disbelief. “Settle your bill,” she continues, “and then get out. If you want back in, you will have to take it up with Mrs. Stilinski.”

Neither one of them moves.

Strong, silent Boyd steps forward, and Lydia nods gratefully at him. Mr. Simone looks flustered, shoving his slipping glasses up his nose and turning back to Mrs. Walsh. He opens his mouth.

“Pay and go,” Stiles says from the kitchen doorway. He is looking down at his hands, drying them on a towel, but Lydia hears the authority in his voice. Danny, Lahey, and Reyes all step forward so that they are backing Boyd, who is still backing her.

Mr. Simone folds, following Lydia back to the register where she rings him out quickly. Mrs. Walsh is right behind him, and when she leaves, she mutters, “See if you stay in business long without us.”

Lydia frowns at her back, trying to swallow her anger enough to be able to check on Allison without upsetting her further.

Another book club participant approaches Allison and apologizes for the argument.

“The thing is,” Allison says, “I think my aunt really did it. I think Kate raped Derek.”

“Even if she did,” Mr. Johnson says, “it doesn’t give us the right to discuss it, and right in front of you too.” Mr. Johnson used to be a pastor before he retired, and he often acts as the book club’s moral compass. He hands Allison a handkerchief before paying his bill and heading for the exit. The other members of book club leave too, murmuring halfhearted apologies as they pay their bills and herd the gawkers out with them.

Suddenly, it is just the staff left, and Stiles hurries to lock the front door before anyone else can slip in. He tapes a sign to the inside glass of the door.

“Meeting,” he says, heading for the back tables. The rest of them follow. The chairs are still warm and there are half-full mugs of coffee and crumpled napkins scattered over the tables.

“First off,” Stiles says, pulling a memo pad from the hidden pocket of his apron, “thank you everyone for supporting Lydia’s decision. Second off, thanks for coming in, and I’m sorry, but we’re calling it a day right now. We’re going to be down our trainees this afternoon, and while I have the utmost confidence in this team, my mom wants us to take this time to process what has happened. Also, my dad wants to talk to anyone who was friends with the Hales.”

“Before we go,” Allison says, “I’ve got a get-well card for Scott. If you could all sign it, it would mean a lot to him.” She passes it around and even the new hires sign it.

Then, they spend a good half hour cleaning the front room, making sure the display cases are clean and locked, the registers are counted down properly, trash is thrown away, and the mugs and tables are washed.

Before they all leave, Stiles passes around another card, this one for Derek. Lydia writes her cell phone number and “If you want to talk.”

When she gets home, she curls up on her bed, her phone in her hand and waits. For what, she can’t say. But, she thinks, she’ll know it when it happens.

~ * ~

The water is cold. It never warmed up, but Derek doesn’t mind. He has never been fond of having to look at his body, wondering sometimes if that was why Peter, and later Kate, targeted him, and the cold water just means he can’t spend much time in the shower anyway. He barely makes it through shampooing his hair and sluicing suds down his torso before he is shivering too much to stay in.

He shuts off the water and grabs a towel, pleased when it is large enough to wrap inside of like a blanket. He dries quickly, avoiding looking into the clear mirror, the overall temperature of the bathroom unchanged after his shower. Benjamin let him borrow some clothes, and Derek pulls them on. He grimaces at the feel of the too-big shorts and the too-small t-shirt, but it’s better than his clothes, which all smell as if Peter dumped his cologne on them. For all he knows, that’s exactly what he did. Even the clothes in his backpack smell like his uncle.

Derek sits on the closed lid of the toilet to put on his cast again, pulling the straps tight and adjusting the heel piece. Then, he leverages himself to his feet and hop-hobbles back to the living room where he drops onto the couch as gently as he can.

Laura briefly looks up from where she is braiding Cora’s hair, Cora sitting in the space between the coffee table and Laura’s legs. Benjamin is in the kitchen making coffee.

“How are you feeling today?” Laura asks, and he wonders if it is something she is going to ask every day. She seems like she would. He never realized just how much of a stranger she really is to him.

He settles for a shrug and grabs for his crutches where they are still leaning against the wall from last night. All he wants right now is to go back to sleep. From the sleepy frown on Cora’s face, he guesses she would also like to go back to bed.

Before he can stand up, Benjamin hands him a blue mug brimming with light brown liquid. Derek sniffs it suspiciously, surprised and pleased to find that at least his cup is hot chocolate and not coffee.

“So, Derek,” Benjamin says, “you’re with me today while Laura and Cora get ready for camp.”

“What are we supposed to do?” He remembers Benjamin telling him that he wanted him to talk to someone. He thinks a therapist. He winces at the idea of telling yet another person about the things done to him.

“Her name is Dr. Morrell. She specializes in juvenile trauma cases.”

“She?” He wants to say no, to show Benjamin his shaking palms. To be honest, though, the pronoun wouldn’t matter. He would still be fucking terrified if the therapist were a man.

Instead, he grips his mug tighter and hunches his shoulders.

“She’s professional,” Benjamin continues. “If you don’t feel comfortable with her, she will suggest other therapists.”

“She is just a therapist,” Laura adds. “She won’t prescribe you anything, but she might refer you to a psychiatrist who can if you need anything.”

“You’ve seen her?” Derek doesn’t understand the sudden sweep of anger that realization brings. Laura is supposed to be perfect, sane, the child they all aspire to be. What does it mean if she has had to seek help and that she is sending him to that same person?

“Well, actually,” Laura admits, almost ashamed-looking, “I met with her once and demanded a new therapist. She has a way of making you feel like she’s staring at your soul and judging you for what she finds there. Not to mention, she likes her labels. We spoke for maybe five minutes before she tried diagnosing me.”

“She is highly recommended. She actually works at Beacon Hill Memorial Hospital as their on-call therapist. I am surprised you were allowed to leave without speaking with her.”

Cora throws up her hands and glares at both Laura and Benjamin. “Stop trying to sell her. Let Derek decide if he wants to go to her by himself.” Derek stares at her, and she shrugs. “You’re going to break your cup,” she tells him.

He glances down to find that he is squeezing the mug so hard his knuckles are white. Deliberately, he unclenches his fingers, prying them off the ceramic one at a time until he can hand the still full cup back to Benjamin.

“I think,” he begins, weakly. “I think,” he repeats, louder, “I would like to talk to Dr. Morrell.”

Then he stands up and heads to the master bedroom where he shoves his crutches into the corner behind the door. He crawls onto the air mattress and hides under his quilt. He hears soft murmuring from Laura and Benjamin, and quiet huffs from Cora. After a few moments, he drifts off.

A distant door slamming rouses him just before he hears a knock on the door to the master bedroom.

“Hey, buddy,” Benjamin says. “I know it’s been a hell of a day already, but I need to take you to see Dr. Morrell now.”

Derek grunts, fighting the quilt so he can sit up. He blinks at his bare feet, wriggling the toes of his good foot. The toes of his other foot twitch. He doesn’t want to wear one sock and one shoe. Benjamin smiles down at him, a leather sandal dangling from his hand. Derek takes it, muttering a thank you under his breath. He tugs it on, ignoring the way it sits uncomfortably on his foot. Benjamin helps him up, grabbing his crutches for him.

They awkwardly hobble down the steps, Benjamin going first so that he can catch Derek if he happens to stumble.

Derek waits while Benjamin throws the crutches into the backseat of his off-duty vehicle, a two-door orange Mustang, and then he holds Derek’s arm while he lowers himself into the passenger seat.

The ride is silent. Benjamin keeps two hands on the wheel the whole time while Derek clutches at the seatbelt across his chest. He counts the lawns he has mowed as they pass them, thinking that if he hadn’t gotten greedy in his desire to get away from his parents and take Cora with him, hadn’t sought out the job at the bakery, his world would still be balanced precariously on the cliff’s edge. He still hasn’t decided it if was worth it yet.

They finally stop at small cottage on the west side of Beacon Hills. A nurse, a tall, shorthaired, redhead woman with cold eyes and thin brows, records his stats roughly. She pumps the blood pressure cuff too fast for comfort, not that it is ever really comfortable. And then she sticks Derek for a blood draw that she refuses to explain.

He stumbles into Dr. Morrell’s at the back of the building, rubbing at where the cuff squeezed him.

Dr. Morrell is a thin, young-looking woman a few inches taller than Derek, but he thinks that might be because of her heels. She sits at her desk as the nurse all but shoves Derek into the room. He wipes his hands on his shorts and wishes he had thought to ask for jeans instead.

“Hello, Derek,” Dr. Morrell says, cadence gentle, tone soft. A departure from her gruff and angry nurse. Victim-voice, he thinks bitterly. Laura was right about her diagnosing off the bat. He hasn’t felt her eyes on his soul though. “Please, have a seat.”

A quick glance around the room reveals only two options for sitting: a black leather loveseat covered with a sky blue afghan and a straight-back chair with a thick yellow cushion set off center from her desk. There is no other furniture in the room and the walls are gray, depressing especially because there is no window.

He takes the chair, leaning his crutches against the wall next to him and folding his still-sweating hands in his lap.

Dr. Morrell flips through a thin folder in front of her. “Sixteen next November,” she reads off. “So far, exhibits signs of post traumatic stress disorder, acute anxiety disorder, and chronic depression.” She closes the folder and smiles at him. “Do you feel this is accurate?”

He stays silent, too stunned to say anything.

“We have twenty-eight minutes left,” she continues, blithely, eyes boring into his. So, she has found his soul, he thinks, feeling her gaze caressing it and making it shrivel into itself. “Where would you like to begin?”

“What?” he mumbles more to himself than to her. She looks expectant. “Um, do you know why I’m here?”

“I specialize in juvenile—”

“Juvenile trauma cases,” Derek finishes. “How do you figure I’ve got anxiety or PTSD? You’ve never met me before today.”

“But Nurse McCall has,” Dr. Morrell says. “She noted her observations in your medical chart. As the mental health advocate on call, I was called in to assess your file, to see if you needed to be placed into therapy. It was my opinion that you should be; however, your sister had already signed you out by the time I was contacted.

“I’ve already worked on your diagnoses based on what has been observed. You jump when people touch you without your permission. You react one of two ways when touched; you either lash out and defend yourself or you shut down. Either one is a symptom of PTSD.”

“Hang on,” Derek holds up a shaking hand, “why were you given my medical chart? Isn’t that protected by doctor-patient confidentiality?”

“I work for the hospital,” Dr. Morrell says. “In fact, if you hadn’t been scheduled for an appointment today, I was going to reach out to you, get you in here for analysis.”

Derek shudders. He isn’t sure if it is just how violated he feels for what she has done, or if there is truly something wrong about her. Either way, he is beyond uncomfortable. He really does not want to be here right anymore.

“Twenty minutes, Derek. What would you like to discuss?”

“I think I need a different therapist,” he blurts, wincing at the suddenness, sharpness, of the words. That could have gone better.

Dr. Morrell nods. “Very well,” she says, leaning back in her chair and smiling at him. “Would you like me to recommend another therapist?” She is being disarming, but it only makes Derek more on edge.

He nods dumbly, choking on the stuttering gasps he can barely manage.

“First, we’re going to help you with your panic attack. Do you want Deputy Votsky to join us?” Derek stares at her blankly, the pain in his chest increasing exponentially as his breath stops entirely and he isn’t even taking in oxygen even though he is still sucking in gulps of useless air.

Dr. Morrell raises an eyebrow at him. “Deputy Benjamin Votsky—the man you came in with.” She moves around her desk faster than he can track, but that is probably because his vision is fading in and out, white spots and black patches dancing in front of his eyes. She kneels in front of him, grabbing his hands.

He whines high in his throat and struggles to pull away. She stares at him, eyes tracking his pupils even as he slides his gaze around the room, trying to pick a point of focus.

“Breathe with me, Derek,” she says, distantly. She takes in a great big breath loudly, sucking air in, in, in until he is positive her lungs are about to explode. She taps on his wrists and then exhales for almost as long as she inhaled. She repeats this for a few minutes, tapping his wrists every time she switches between sucking and blowing.

Derek settles on her necklace as a focal point, watching as it rises and lowers with the movement of her chest. He doesn’t even realize when he starts breathing in sync with her, just that she settles back onto her heels and smiles brightly. He pulls his hands free from her grasp, and she lets him go easily.

When he can draw a deep breath without sputtering, she stands up and goes back to her chair. She grabs her phone, punching in a number and speaking rapidly into the receiver in a language that is not familiar to him.

She hangs up and starts scribbling on a scrap of paper. “This is the address of a psychiatrist who also specializes in juvenile trauma cases. I am sorry wasn’t able to help you. Derek.”

He nods numbly, grabbing his crutches so he can stand and hobble to the door. Benjamin, sitting in one of the uncomfortable looking chairs in the waiting room, folds the newspaper he was looking at and accepts the address from Dr. Morrell. He holds the door so Derek can leave.

As they start pulling away from the parking lot, Derek says, lowly, “I’m sorry I’m such a screw up.”

Benjamin brakes hard and slams the car into park again. Thankfully, there are no other vehicles around them.

“Listen to me,” Benjamin hisses, and Derek startles at the heat he hears. “You’re not a screw up—not at all. You’ve had a shitty lot in life for so long but you’re not to blame for it. I don’t care how long it takes you to believe it. I’ll tell you every day, every minute you need me to—you aren’t at fault for what has happened to you.”

His words should make Derek feel better, but instead they just make him think of the ways he has let everyone down. He starts sniffling, hiding his face in his hands to keep Benjamin from seeing the tears.

“Let’s get you home—back to the apartment. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

Derek is inclined to agree with him. But. “What about the new therapist?” he asks. He is almost positive Dr. Morrell made an appointment for today.

“I’ll call Dr. Deaton and schedule an appointment,” Benjamin promises. “For now, I just want to get you home so you can rest.”

There Benjamin goes again, calling the apartment home. Derek supposes it is his home. It’s Derek’s home now too. He feels like home should still mean the house out in the preserve, but it doesn’t make his chest seize in panic to think of the air mattress and of the bathroom that smells like his sister’s shampoo and Benjamin’s aftershave.

Home, he thinks, is where he is loved. And Mom and Dad obviously don’t love him.

~ * ~

Talia stares at the warrant John hands her. Beside her, James stares at John.

“I don’t understand,” Talia says. “You want to search our house for sex toys and suspicious stains?”

John nods. “Your brother is being investigated for rape and sexual abuse of a minor.”

“Peter was cured,” Talia says, and John hears the desperation in her voice. “He _was_ ,” she insists. “Derek must have done something to draw his attention.”

“Cured?” John asks, looking between the Hales for an explanation. He will address their blatant victim blaming in a second when he can see through the rage at the injustice these _parents_ are inflicting upon their child.

James leads John to the dining room table where both Hales sit to read over the warrant. John directs the deputies upstairs, to Peter’s room. To Derek’s. To that small apartment over the garage that no one uses but might have been a scene of hell for Derek.

After a few quiet moments, James explains, “We caught Peter touching Derek when he was three. We sent him to a rehabilitation center. It worked. Peter came home and we welcomed him back.” James refuses to look at John, and it is a damn good thing he isn’t. John’s rage has only increased and he finds himself wondering if he can slap them for their obvious incompetence.

“You knew,” he chokes out, hands clenched at his sides, fingers itching for his gun. “You knew that Peter had abused him, would probably do it again, and you let him back into your home?” He slams a hand down onto the table, making James jump. Talia glares at him, refusing to acknowledge her part in Derek’s suffering.

“You knew Peter had hurt Derek,” John says, coldly. “You still let him come here and hurt him again. And now you’re blaming Derek for instigating it?”

“Peter was cured. Derek tempted him,” Talia says, matter-of-factly. She folds her hands in her lap and eyes him boldly. For a long second, John stares at her in disbelief.

“If it had been anyone but Derek, you wouldn’t be saying these things.” He reaches for his belt, skimming his gun to make her posture falter as she steels herself. He pulls out his handcuffs and wraps a hand around her arm to haul her to her feet. “Talia Hale, you are under arrest for child endangerment and facilitating the rape of a minor.” He reels off her rights, shoving the Miranda Card under her nose for her to sign to indicate she understands. Obstinately, she refuses.

John doesn’t care. She will be Mirandized at least three times before she even gets to the jail. He hands her off to Deputy Parrish, who trades him another set of handcuffs. Then, he turns to James.

James is already standing. His face is white and he is shaking. Tears gather in his eyes as he takes the card Talia didn’t sign and shakily puts a pen to it.

“I understand,” he says, softly. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help that boy from what you’ve let happen to him,” John says, cuffing him, leading him outside to a different patrol car than the one Talia is in the back of.

Talia loudly demands her lawyer, interrupting Parrish as he reads her Miranda Rights again. John pushes down James’ head as he helps him to the backseat of Deputy Tara Graeme’s patrol car.

“See if you can’t get him to talk,” he says to her, handing her James’ signed Miranda Card. “See just how much they knew about Peter’s renewed abuse of Derek. See if they knew anything about Kate.”

He waves off both cars before turning back to the house. On the porch, several deputies mill about, each one carrying an unlidded, clear plastic tote stuffed full of paper evidence bags.

“Sheriff,” Deputy Thomas Kincaid, a rookie this year who rarely leaves the station, says. “We’ve found semen stains on the boy’s mattress and two differently colored pubic hairs on the pillow.”

“Bag everything,” John says. “Make sure chain of command is followed absolutely. None of these bastards are going to get off on a technicality.”

“Yes, sir.”

John heads upstairs, remembering his trip yesterday and wondering how he could have missed this wall of framed photographs, putting it down to adrenaline and the fact that he was on a rescue mission yesterday, not an observation.

He is unsurprised to see very few pictures of Laura, and none after she sought emancipation and won different guardians. There are even less pictures of Derek, but John finds a recent one tucked into the corner by the banister. The photo features Derek and Peter, from the waist up, shirtless. Peter is hugging Derek from behind, draped over him in a manner that smacks of something sinister. From Derek’s frightened, pained expression, John guesses that Peter isn’t just hugging him.

John shudders, feeling the rage and helplessness sweep through him again. He cannot understand how Talia and James could pick their child’s abuser over him. It does not make sense. And it never will, he supposes, snapping on a pair of gloves and sliding the picture off the wall.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who read, kudos, bookmark, and subscribe. I really do appreciate it.
> 
> And, yes, the nurse in Dr. Morrell's office is Victoria Argent. Her presence there will be examined further along in the story (but she won't be named for quite a while).
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	9. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you think I need to tag something, let me know. Thanks!

~ * ~

Laura stops the car in front of the Beacon Hills Post Office and stares expectantly at Cora. Cora pretends not to notice and stares out of the window at the blue collection box while she waits for Laura to say what is on her mind.

She tries not to squirm under the continued scrutiny. She knows she wants to talk about what just happened at the bank, but Cora is not in the mood. She doesn’t know how Derek deals with all the attention this crapfest, or as Sheriff Stilinski put it, shit storm, has foisted upon them.

It’s already all over town that the Sheriff and his deputies arrested Mom and Dad. Persons as prominent as Talia and James Hale can’t take a dump without it being broadcast as the latest news.

Their charges haven’t been revealed, but from what Laura muttered under her breath as they waited in line at the bank, it must have something to do with what Kate and Peter did to Derek.

“There is no cell service at Camp Bennington,” Laura says, suddenly, making Cora jump and swivel her attention to her, “so, we’ll send you with a lot of change. Don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything.”

Camp is only a week long. Cora wonders just what Laura thinks is going to happen there. It’s not like the kids will be interested in her life, and the teachers are all from the Sacramento area. What does Sacramento care about little old Beacon Hills? Nothing. That’s what. She’ll probably be so under the radar that she can actually forget about the right here and now while she’s gone.

She thinks she should feel guilty about that, but she doesn’t. She wishes she were going to camp today instead of on Friday. She still has two days to go.

“Promise me?” Laura says. She really has this worrying routine down better than Mom.

“Sure,” she says.

Laura sighs and settles back in her seat, staring ahead at the people crossing the street, heading for the bakery Derek tried to work at. It’s closed today, as evidence by more than one dumb person tugging on the handles and then reading what appears to be a sign on the door.

“There’s going to be a press conference at City Hall releasing the charges against Talia and James. I think the one for Peter and Kate is before it.”

“Will they mention us?” Cora asks. Or just Derek, she wants to say.

“Maybe as members of the family,” Laura says, her voice weird, like she’s mad and sad at the same time. Derek sounds like that a lot too. “Derek is still a minor so they can’t release his name as their victim, but this is a small town—everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

Everyone especially knows the Hales business, she means. From an early age, Cora has been instructed on how to act around town. It’s why she enjoys camp so much—it’s the only time she gets to be herself.

Cora looks back at the post office. She is holding the letter with her signed forms and the cashier’s check they got for Derek’s money. All they need is a stamp. The post office looks busy, and waiting for the crowd to thin does not seem to be working. She can still feel the squeezes of the tellers when they realized who she was.

“Can’t you do it without me?” she asks, trying not to whine. Laura sighs again.

“Would if I could, honey. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the address you want to send it to, and I don’t have any pens on me.”

“Bet you would if it was Derek who was going,” Cora mutters. She doesn’t really believe that; she just wants to make Laura feel hurt for doing everything she can to help Derek and almost nothing to help her.

Laura blinks, clenching her hands on the steering wheel and facing forward. Cora studies her profile. Her jaw jumps as she grits her teeth, a muscle jerking beneath the skin. “You know that’s not true. I wouldn’t have known the slightest thing about Derek if I hadn’t grown up with him.”

“You grew up with me too,” Cora points out, petulant.

“I was eight when you were born. Talia didn’t trust me with you and I—”

Cora interrupts her, “You love Derek more than you love me! I’m tired of being second best. Do you know what Mom used to say to me all the time before you moved out?” She affects a higher pitch, letting her jealously and anger bleed into her tone as she mimics her mother. “‘Why can’t you be more like Laura, so independent!’ Mom always compared me to you.” Cora opens her fists and tries to calm herself by breathing through her nose.

Laura hunches down, tears already falling from her eyes. Cora tries to ignore the stab of guilt in her chest. It doesn’t work. “I’m sorry,” Laura says, starting to cry with big, ugly, racking sobs. “I am so sorry for all the pain you’ve gone through, and I’m sorry it seems like I’ve only contributed to it. I will do my best to make it up to you.”

Cora crosses her arms and blows out a breath. “I suppose that’ll have to do.” She winces at the hardness in her tone, hoping Laura can read what she isn’t saying, that she accepts Laura’s apology even though Laura didn’t need to make one to her.

Laura wipes at her cheeks, smiling through the still-falling tears. “Ready to mail your letter to Camp Bennington?”

Cora nods. “Ready.”

They step out of the car at the same time and head to the front door of the post office. Cora pretends not to notice the hushed, but heated, whispers floating around them.

She hears, “I heard he raped his sister too.”

Then, Mrs. Walsh, the rich bitch whose husband owns the half of town that the Hales don’t, says, “Shame. That Derek always seemed like such a nice boy too.”

~ * ~

Stiles has Derek’s card in one hand and is third in line to buy a stamp. The only reason he doesn’t use the ones stashed in his mom’s office is because he started second-guessing whether a generic Forever Stamp really was the right stamp for this envelope.

He is on the phone with his dad, trying to cajole Laura Hale’s address from him so that he can actually mail the damn thing without having to explain to the lone clerk manning the window that he doesn’t know where exactly he is sending his correspondence.

As his dad says no for the umpteenth time, the door jingles and in steps the very woman he needs—and Cora too. Stiles hangs up on his dad without a proper goodbye. Whatever, Dad is used to it. He’ll live.

Stiles leaves the line, the people behind him all too happy to shuffle forward so that his spot is obliterated. The man who was behind him has the audacity to grin at him when he raises an eyebrow at him.

As he approaches the Hales, he hears the whispers start, and God, the things they are saying, mostly about Derek, are just terrible. Cora looks like she wants to start crying and Laura looks like she already lost that battle. Both of them are only getting more upset as the whispers increase in volume until they can’t be considered whispers at all.

Of course, right at the center of the gossipers, the loudest one of all too, is Mrs. Walsh. Only now, instead of claiming Kate hurt a young boy, she is now accusing Derek of touching Cora the way he was touched.

“Mrs. Walsh,” Stiles says, pleasantly.

Under her breath, Cora mutters, “Shut up.”

Mrs. Walsh looks at him and scoffs. “Going to tell me off again?” she asks, haughty.

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t doing something wrong.”

“And what am I doing wrong?”

“You’re assuming things about a case that, frankly, has nothing to do with you. You are spreading malicious rumors about a family that is just as entitled to its privacy as you are to yours.”

Mrs. Walsh turns to Cora and says, in the most condescending tone Stiles has ever heard, “Does your brother bad-touch you, sweetie?”

Stiles almost falls over laughing when Cora decks Mrs. Walsh right in her fucking mouth. Laura ushers Cora out, and Stiles follows.

Everyone else either rallies around Mrs. Walsh or scatters, probably afraid of sticking around to deal with the Sheriff when he is inevitably called.

“Hey, nice shot,” he says to Cora when he catches up to the Hales. “I’ve been wanting to do that for forever.” He has, too. Ever since Mrs. Walsh wandered over during her husband’s grand opening and demanded his mom give her a sheet cake for free as a ‘new neighbors’ gift. Mom hadn’t caved, and Mr. Walsh had to pay for the six donuts his wife smashed in her rage.

Cora stares at him, in shock or surprise, before shaking her head and climbing into the passenger seat of Laura’s Ford Focus. She leaves the door open.

“It’s Stiles, right?” Laura says, twirling her keys on her finger while she studies him. He nods shyly. “Thank you for standing up for us.”

“I can’t believe people are saying those things about Derek. It’s like they don’t even think he is a person anymore.”

“I wish we could leave, so I could take them both away from what’s coming. How many people are going to come up to Cora and assume she’s been abused too?” She shakes her head.

“And how many are going to think Derek did it,” Stiles says. “They don’t see a victim or a survivor—they just see someone who is perpetuating a cycle.”

“Derek doesn’t deserve this.”

“Which reminds me, actually,” Stiles says, holding up the card. “This is a little something from the staff at _Kitchen Fresh_. Can you make sure Derek gets it?”

Laura takes the card and hands it to Cora Then she holds out an envelope with a  hastily scribbled address for one of those specialty camps run through a larger school system for privileged kids. Of course Cora would go to one of those.

“Where did you get a pen?” Laura whispers to Cora, and she shrugs.

Laura turns back to Stiles. “Can you mail that for us?” She holds out a dollar bill. “I don’t want to risk going back in there.”

“I don’t blame you,” he says. He hands back the dollar and pulls out the book of stamps he pocketed during his earlier dilemma of stamp-usage.

“Thank you,” Laura says, and then she is gone, shut Cora’s door, climbed behind the wheel of her car, and driven off. Stiles shrugs to himself and heads back inside the post office.

Mrs. Walsh is sitting on a folding stool while the woman she was speaking with earlier dabs at her face with a damp paper towel. The crowd has decreased significantly so he finds himself at the front of the line quickly. He hands Jodi, the postmaster, Laura’s letter, grinning disarmingly at her. It helps that Jodi used to babysit him when he was younger.

“I’m sorry that I have to report the incident,” she says.

“Oh, I understand completely. The Government wants to know what goes on at its premises. Totally okay.”

“What’s not okay,” Jodi says, lowering her voice and leaving over the counter so that she is closer to him, “is the way that woman just thinks she is the only one who knows the truth. Everyone is talking about the Hales and their arrests, but no one knows what the charges are yet.” She glances pointedly at the clock in the lobby. “My lunch break is in fifteen minutes. Meet me out back.”

“Sure,” he says, intrigued with the way she keeps looking around, making sure no one is listening in on their conversation. Mrs. Walsh and her friend are too busy with a bloody lip to be eavesdropping.

 Stiles heads outside and walks around the building, trailing his fingers over the bricked walls. Behind the post office is an old picnic table covered in obscene graffiti and gouged initials. There have been a few petitions over the years to remove the table, but City Council usually just opts to power-wash most of the graffiti off and let it stay.

He sits on the far side, facing the back door, and twiddles his thumbs while he waits. Seventeen minutes later, according to his wristwatch, Jodi steps out of the back door, a red insulated bag hanging off her shoulder. A ring of keys clipped to the bag jingles as she walks over to him and sits down.

She unzips the bag, furtively glancing around, like she is checking to be certain no one has followed them.

Satisfied that they are alone, she focuses on pulling out a plastic-wrapped sandwich, a lidded bowl of cheese cubes and apple slices. She hands him the cheese and apples.

“I used to date Peter Hale,” she says, and Stiles pauses in pulling off the lid to stare at her.

“I know, I know,” she continues, “who’d date a psycho like that?”

“Like what?” Stiles asks, suspicion flaring at the guilty way she won’t meet his eyes, staring down at her sandwich as she unwraps it. “Jodi, what did Peter do?”

“He showed me his porn collection once when I accused him of not being able to keep it up for me.”

Stiles thinks of his pegging video and wonders if Peter is as tame as him. He doubts it. The Peter Hale he knows from book club is not a tame personality.

“There was a picture—an actual picture, not something printed off the Internet—that made me break up with him then and there.” She pokes at the sandwich, peeling back the top slice of bread so she can sort through the contents, picking out a slice of tomato. “It was a picture of his nephew. Derek would have been about nine or ten at this time. He was—posed. There’s no other way to say it. A nine-year-old boy straddling his uncle’s bare lap.” Jodi shakes her head. “I told his mom about that picture, but he was defended by his sister and her husband.”

“Are you telling me this to alleviate any lingering guilt for not helping Derek more?”

“No,” she sighs heavily and starts tucking away the debris from the lunch she didn’t even eat. Stiles hands her the unopened bowl. “I know I did everything I could have. I even told the then-sheriff Calhoun. The only person who believed me was Peter’s mom.”

“Why didn’t you come to my dad when he was elected?”

Jodi shrugs. “Talia Hale vowed to never let her son talk about it, saying I was causing irreparable harm to him. She promised to ruin me if I spoke about it. As it was, she got her circle of friends to stop hiring me.”

That must have been when she stopped babysitting Scott and him on weekends or really busy days at the bakery.

“How can Mrs. Hale keep denying what’s been done to Derek?” He waves his hands in frustration, willing Jodi to understand. Except, she does understand, if her story is true. “I mean, if you saw evidence of it, why wouldn’t she believe that there was something wrong with her brother?”

“I don’t know, Stiles. Sometimes it’s not easy to pick a side. And sometimes it’s easier to keep saying something even when all evidence points to a different outlook. It’s just an excuse, but maybe the Hales are scared to acknowledge Peter’s misdeeds because then they would have accountability for his actions.”

She leaves him sitting at the table, pondering her words.

She is right about one thing: it is just an excuse.

~ * ~

It is hot, standing in the late July sunshine on the steps of City Hall, flanked by Mayor Calhoun and her aide. John holds still, feeling nervous sweat prickle at his temples and roll down his back.

Mayor Calhoun has already given her blessing for the investigations into the Hales, and now the reporters, a dozen sleepy intern-looking kids, are fanning themselves with their memo pads, appearing to have no opinion so far.

He was expecting a shit storm, a flurry of questions about a case that he has no answers to; he can’t get Peter to admit to the fact that he was raping his own nephew, even with the photographic evidence. He can barely get any answers from James, and Talia refuses to speak without her lawyer present. She hasn’t provided a name yet despite being given ample opportunity to do so.

And, according to Votsky and Parrish, the gossip all over town is that Derek is molesting Cora. His gut says Derek is innocent of the malicious rumors, but he knows he will have to ask about it anyway.

He is not looking forward to having that conversation with either child in the slightest.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” a bored young man with peeling sunburn across his nose shouts. John points at him, “Can you tell us why the Hales were arrested?”

“The official charges of Talia and James Hale are: endangering and facilitating the rape of a minor. Peter Hale’s charges are: endangering the welfare of a minor, lewd and lascivious behavior with a minor, and rape of a minor. A full listing of charges will be posted to the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department website later today.”

“Does Kate Argent’s arrest have any bearing on the cases against the Hales?” a less sleepy intern shouts at him. He stares her down, frowning at her preppy ponytail and matching pink shirt and socks.

“This is a press conference addressing the arrest and investigation of the Hales. Nothing more.”

“Did Kate Argent rape Derek Hale?” She grins maliciously. “Did Peter Hale?”

Suddenly, the interns come alive, chattering and spitting rapid-fire queries. “No more questions!” John shouts over them. He motions to Deputy Graeme, standing at the back of the audience, to bring the inciter to the front.

He steps out of range of the microphones and meets them at the bottom of the steps.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, dragging the name of a minor into this,” he hisses, “but you leave _all_ of the Hale children out of any pieces you write.”

She smiles again, and it makes John think of a hyena, circling, waiting for someone else to make the kill so she can chase them off and get the glory. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. I won’t tell anyone you were my source.”

“Leave the Hales alone,” he says, forcefully. “They’re going through a tough time and don’t need any interlopers invading their privacy.”

No, they will just have the Sheriff’s Department tromping through their lives.

“Because of the rapes of Derek Hale?”

John blinks at her. Jesus, is she stupid? Or does she want to be arrested for impeding justice? “Because their parents were just arrested,” he says. “If I find out you’ve written anything about the Hales I will have you arrested.”

“For what?” she snorts.

“Libel, for starters. Now get.”

She huffs loudly, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, almost smacking Graeme in the face with it, before walking briskly back to one of those newfangled tiny cars with barely enough room for the driver.

“With all due respect,” Graeme says, “this is a clusterfuck. Sir,” she tacks on hurriedly.

John nods his agreement. “What I don’t get, though,” he says, “is how the hell does the whole town know about these cases? Is there a leak in the department or the hospital?”

“Probably neither,” she says. “What about scanners? If someone has one and knows the codes…”

“Jesus,” John breathes, scrubbing at his face. “This town is full of gossipmongers. Apparently one of them, Mrs. Walsh, was assaulted by a Hale after publicly accusing Derek Hale of molesting Cora.”

Now, it’s Graeme’s turn to say, “Jesus.”

John nods. “I think I’m going to recommend the Hale children move temporarily—just until after the trials.”

“Could be a long time, sir.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I just wish people still had basic human decency. There is nothing in what the kids say that makes me think Derek is perpetuating the abuse. How the hell did the whole town decide he’s guilty of it when he is the victim?”

“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps that is a mystery for another time, though?”

John smiles at her. “Maybe, Deputy Graeme, but for now let’s focus on making these charges stick.”

“Bail hearing?”

“Bail hearing.” John hopes that the prosecuting attorney will meet with him beforehand so that he can impress upon him the importance of keeping Kate Argent and Peter Hale behind bars until their trials. He checks his watch. Peter is being released from the hospital to their custody in half an hour. The arraignment hearings will be first thing tomorrow morning.

Plenty of time for all parties to spend in the jail cells.

~ * ~

Derek spends an hour on the couch after Benjamin brings him back to the apartment. He stays curled up as best he can, with one leg stuck out, crying and trying not to. Laura has to teach her class and Benjamin has a shift. Cora is the only one here with him, but she’s ignoring him.

Not for the first time, but for the first time in a long while, Derek wonders if it would be easier or get better if he wasn’t here. If he was dead. If he simply wasn’t around for Peter to have sex with, wasn’t there to disappoint his parents, his sisters. Himself.

He rubs at his aching chest, this pain different form his usual panic attacks. Chronic depressive disorder, he thinks, wondering if Dr. Morrell read him right.

He needs to think about something, anything, else, he decides, staring at the pale blue envelope Laura pressed into his hand before she left. Currently, it sits next to him, lying face down to hide the horribly illegible scrawl that might be his name. He grabs it and tears it open, hoping it distracts from the fear and utter misery he is feeling.

Inside is a card, a folded piece of card stock decorated with a slice of tie-dye cake and a dancing fork. It looks hand drawn. When he lets it fall open, he is surprised to see that all of the workers at  _Kitchen Fresh_  signed it. There is Scott and Stiles crammed into a corner while Danny, the stockroom clerk, and Allison, the dark haired clerk, mirror each other on the sides. There is no message in the middle, just more names and phone numbers and a few words. There are way more names signed to the card than he had thought worked there.

On closer inspection, he notices Isaac Lahey’s scrawny signature and V. Boyd’s blocky lettering. Two boys he used to buy lunch for before his parents took away his ‘allowance.’ He studies the card again until he finds a tiny Erica Reyes tucked next to Lydia Martin’s sprawling flourish.

Last school year, he spent time prowling the halls and staring menacingly at any kids who said mean or rude things about Erica. He met her at the free clinic where she had gone to get her medications adjusted, and he had been trying not to let it out that Kate was the reason for his broken arm. Kate had been mad that day because Derek was going to clean pools instead of staying home where she could...corner him.

Again.

To rape him.

Rape.

This is not the first time Derek has thought about the word in conjecture with himself, but it is the first time that it resonates with him. He has been raped. By Peter and by Kate.

A tear splashes onto the card. Another one follows the next and soon Derek is outright sobbing, clawing at the pain building in his chest again.

He knows Cora is free now. He can stop sticking around for her; Laura will take care of her. They don’t need him anymore. They don’t need to be disappointed in him anymore.

He can’t breathe for all the gasping he is still doing. Maybe he should have insisted on seeing Dr. Deaton today. He clenches his hands, startled to find he still holds the card.

This depression is starting to feel an awful lot like a panic attack with how hard it is to breathe.

The card, he thinks again, when it crinkles as he moves his hand to pat at his face. He feels swollen, stuck full of emotions that won’t leave no matter how hard he cries.

Derek flattens the card on his leg, smoothing the wrinkles out. He reads it again, trying to believe someone will care if he dies.

Lydia’s signature catches his eye again, and he stares at her number, the words, “If you want to talk,” jumping out at him.

It’s a simple phrase. One he is certain Laura said to him in the midst of her “I love you”s and “Always”es. But, he doesn’t want Laura. Truth be told, he has never wanted her. She left him there—they all did—and he knows she didn’t know what was happening, but it still feels like she did. Mom and Dad certainly did, and they chose to do nothing to stop Peter.

Leaving his crutches behind, he hobbles to the kitchen and grabs the landline’s receiver, a hold-over from another age where there is a cord connecting it to the base. His hands shake so much that he has to wait a few minutes, which he uses to argue with himself about calling a virtual stranger to talk about something so personal, until he is calm enough to dial the number Lydia left.

Despite the overwhelming panic he feels, he can breathe now, albeit hindered, due to the mucous generated by his crying bouts.

Lydia answers on the fourth ring, a clipped, “Ms. Martin.”

“Uh,” Derek stutters. “Lydia?” He winces.

“This is she,” Lydia replies, still using the clipped tone. “Whom may I ask is calling?”

“It’s, um, it’s Derek.” Oh, God, he should not have called. She probably didn’t mean what she wrote. Hardly anyone does.

“Derek Hale?” she asks, tone softer, suddenly. He nods, throat too dry to speak. “What can I do for you, Derek?”

He tries to swallow, tries to breathe. Both stick in his throat. He thinks he might actually pass out.

“Derek?”

He needs to say something—anything!

“I’m thinking about suicide,” he blurts.

Shit! No, not that!

“I’m here, talk to me,” she says.

Oh, he thinks dumbly.

Something unfurls in Derek’s chest.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The last section of this chapter is what I used as my Nanowrimo sample. It's also posted, unedited, on [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	10. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefly edited. If anything wrong stands out, please let me know.

~ * ~

Scott sits at the kitchen table bored out of his mind, wasting time dunking cookies in a glass of milk when the door flies open and Stiles waltzes in.

“Hey, Scotty,” he sings, grinning worryingly at Scott.

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott stutters out, gripping his glass a little more firmly. Nothing is really safe around Stiles. Scott is the first example of that.

“So,” Stiles sighs as he drops into a chair and kicks back so that the front paws leave the floor and he balances on the back paws. “Heads up, the whole town is going absolutely bonkers since the Hales were arrested.”

“They arrested Derek’s parents? Why?” Scott sits up and stares at his friend. Oh man, all the good stuff happens when he’s laid up. It’s not fair!

“They haven’t released the official charges yet, and Deputy Graeme was the one patrolling the press conference, so I couldn’t sneak in.”

Things like that have never stopped Stiles before. “But?” Scott prompts. There is always a ‘but’ with Stiles.

“But…I think it’s because they looked the other way.”

“What other way?” Scott knows he isn’t the brightest bulb in the box, okay? He’s not even the brightest bulb in a store of dim bulbs. He freaking knows it which is why he hates it when Stiles has to point things out for him, especially with his little information games.

Stiles sighs loudly, thumping the chair solidly onto all four paws and grabbing Scott’s milk glass. They tug-of-war it briefly before Scott surrenders. It’s his mom’s favorite glass, and he is not about to be the reason it broke. Nope. Stiles can take the blame all himself.

Although, Scott really hopes he doesn’t break it.

“Apparently,” Stiles says after gulping down the crumby mess left in the glass and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “the Hales were aware of the assaults on Derek.”

“Assaults?” Scott wrinkles his brow. He almost collapses in shock when Stiles rinses out the glass and sets it in the sink. “His leg?”

“No, dumbass,” Stiles says, smacking the back of Scott’s head on his way back to his seat. “Sexual assaults. Derek Hale was raped by his uncle and Kate Argent.”

“Allison’s aunt?”

“Do you know any others?”

Scott remains silent.

“You remember Jodi Michaels? Used to look after us when we were younger?”

Scott nods. He hasn’t thought of Jodi in years. He wonders if she still has that streak of hot pink in her hair. He used to have such a crush on her with her wild hair, nose piercing, and scented Chapstick.

“Well,” Stiles continues, “she said Peter Hale, his own uncle, showed her photographs of himself with Derek in compromising positions. And apparently, he’s been raping him since he was nine.”

“Since Peter was nine?”

“No, Derek. Peter’s almost ten years older.”

Scott thinks about what Stiles is telling him for a moment. “That so majorly sucks,” he finally says. No wonder Stiles had insisted he sign that card for Derek. Who knows what kind of support group he has, especially if his parents looked the other way and let Peter hurt him so profoundly.

Before Stiles has a chance to respond, his cell phone goes off, trilling some Science Fiction television show’s theme song. Neither of them recognizes the number, so of course Stiles answers it on speakerphone.

“Stiles,” Lydia Martin hisses. “Help me!”

“Help you with what?” Stiles asks softly, probably inspired by Lydia’s lowered voice. He holds his hand up so that Scott knows not to speak. Scott tries not to be offended.

“I need Laura Hale’s number—Derek used it on his application to _Kitchen Fresh_. Derek is having suicidal ideations and I don’t know how to help him.” She sounds close to tears.

Never has Scott heard Lydia Martin so out of control.

In the background of the call, it sounds as if she is speaking to her lapdog, Prada, a tiny black and white papillon with a penchant for chewing sneakers and yipping loudly at everyone who isn’t Lydia. But, every once in a while, her voice goes silent, like she’s listening instead of talking, but there is no answering noise from Prada.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “I’m going to get Laura and bring her to Derek. She teaches that dance class at _Emilio’s_ , right?”

“Should I come too?” Scott asks. He wants to help, but he’s not sure he would know what to do. He might make it worse.

Stiles looks guilty for a moment, and Scott doesn’t understand until he says, “Maybe not this time?”

Scott feels hurt—he burned his hand for Derek, and yeah, he might not know how to make it better but wouldn’t it be nice to show support for him? Then, he is struck by a thought: does he want to help just to help, or does he want the recognition that would come from it?

He can’t answer the question truthfully, so he lets Stiles go without him and tries not to regret it.

~ * ~

Laura is in the middle of a traditional, no frills tango when the doors to _Emilio’s_ fly open with a loud bang and Stiles Stilinski stumbles in. he scans the shocked crowd frantically before his eyes land on her and he runs to her.

He has a phone clutched in one hand while the other rests on his heaving chest. “It’s Derek!” he gasps.

The world tilts for a long second before she shakes it off and moves, grabbing his arm to drag him to Emilio’s office.

“My brother, He needs me. I have to go,” she says to Emilio. His face darkens momentarily before he forces a worried look onto his face. She ignores that for now, saying, “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t wait for his response, probably one of fake sympathy, everything about Emilio is fake, hauling Stiles back to the dance floor where one of her students, a young woman she went to school with, hands her the duffle bag.

“Lydia Martin called me,” Stiles explains, a little less breathlessly, shaking his phone a bit before pressing it back to his ear to listen for a moment. “She said Derek called her.”

The outside air is too warm, and Laura’s skin prickles uncomfortably with it, but inside she feels ice cold. She needs to get home. She needs to get home NOW. She starts marching toward her apartment. The business district butts up to the residential area, and all told, they are about six blocks from her apartment. She regrets not driving today.

Once they have gone a few blocks, she asks, “Who’s Lydia Martin?”

Stiles flaps a hand. “She’s one of the clerks at my mom’s bakery. She must’ve included her number in the card we made—a lot of us did.”

Laura swallows down the sudden flare of hurt of Derek reaching out to a stranger rather than her inspires. She has to look at this from Derek’s perspective no matter the hurt she feels. And, she understands. He doesn’t trust the sister who left him there.

She repeats Stiles’ words to herself. Derek called Lydia for a reason.

“Did she say why my brother called her?”

Stiles mumbles something too low for Laura to hear over their pounding footsteps. They aren’t running, but she wishes they were. She can’t shake the feeling of dread. Derek doesn’t reach out to people.

She glares at Stiles and he gulps audibly.

“What did he say to her.”

“He—He may have,” Stiles stammers, babbling uselessly. “That is to say, Lydia said—” he pauses, and Laura resists the urge to shake him. Barely. “He is having suicidal ideations?”

Laura stumbles to a stop. Her fingers clench on the duffle’s handle. “What?” she whispers. “Suicidal?”

If the world tilted for Stiles’ appearance, it’s doing back flips and handsprings now. She isn’t sure she can even keep standing. She feels like she is wobbling wildly. Stiles’ face flickers in and out of her line of vision, and he looks progressively more worried each time she sees him.

Stiles bobs his head sharply, forcing Laura to focus on him. “He called Lydia and Lydia called me because she doesn’t know how to help him.”

“And you think I can?” Stiles nods, Laura hefts the duffle and marches with renewed vigor toward her apartment. “Is she talking to him right now?”

Stiles jogs to catch up to her and holds up his phone. “Yes,” he huffs out. “She’s also keeping me updated on the situation.”

Laura ignores that word and the fear it sparks. Derek is _not_ a situation. She instead clings to a thin thread of hope that says he is still speaking to Lydia, he is still here for her to swoop in and save the day, ‘situation’ be damned.

Stiles shadows her all the way to her apartment, up the three flights of steps, and down the open hallway to door 306. She glares at him a little when he crowds her as she unlocks the door. She tries to assert, with her lowered brows and thinned lips, that this is a private matter, that his help is no longer required or even wanted, but Stiles is unfazed.

He follows her into the apartment, phone pressed against his ear, murmuring softly to Lydia.

Laura scans the living room for Derek as frantically as Stiles had looked for her earlier. Her heart stutters when she can’t see him immediately. Stiles just points at the doorway to the kitchen.

Derek is curled on a chair he dragged to the wall with the landline receiver. His face is wet with tears and the phone’s cord is wrapped tightly around the hand not clutching the receiver. Relief makes the world tilt yet again, but it snaps back into place, and Laura just stands there, breathing in easily as she takes in her apparently unharmed brother talking on the phone.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says thickly, sniffling. He doesn’t say anything else for a long moment. Laura is aware of Stiles standing next to her, still murmuring lowly.

“Derek,” Laura calls, and he startles badly, flinching and jerking so hard he almost falls off the chair. He recovers well, face blanking even though she can see he is still crying.

“My sister is home,” he says, sounding sullen, but Laura attributes it to the fact that his nose is red and running, stuffed no doubt with mucous.

He glances at her, curled almost protectively around the phone as he listens to whatever Lydia says to him. Then, he notices Stiles next to Laura and frowns. He opens his mouth to speak but stays silent. Laura guesses that Lydia is still speaking.

Finally, Derek says, “Thank you. I will. Thank you. You too. Bye.” Slowly, he unfolds himself so that he can stand up and replace the receiver in its cradle.

When he turns back to them, Laura notices new tears on his face. Derek scrubs at them with angry jerks of his hands.

“Derek,” she says, dropping her duffle bag so she can walk up to him and wrap him in a hug. Just before she makes contact, she whispers, “I’m going to hug you now. I love you so much.” It hurts to have to remember to give him warnings. She is so used to grabbing people’s hands, to touching their arms, to hugging and kissing, that it feels jarring to have to pause and make sure Derek is okay when she tries to offer him comfort.

But, it certainly is worth it when he sags against her in relief and lets her hold him for nearly a full minute before he shrugs free, backing up so that there is a few feet of space between them.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says to the floor, scuffing at a sauce stain with the toes of his injured foot. “I’m sorry I called someone else instead of you.”

Laura holds up a hand. “Was she able to help you?” she asks. Derek nods without raising his head. Laura smiles, finding it to be genuine. “Then I’m glad you did call someone else.” His head shoots up and he stares at her in shock.

“Derek, I love you,” she repeats. “All I want for you is what’s best. If that means calling someone who offered to be there for you and actually is, then that makes me happy too.” Maybe if she says it enough, with conviction, she’ll start to believe it too.

“I don’t really want to die,” he mutters quietly. “Lydia says it’s maybe more of a case of I don’t want to be here?”

Laura blinks at that. She doesn’t know what to say to him; the same way she doesn’t know what to say to Cora. She can’t promise that it will be okay; they’ve both seen that it isn’t. She can’t say that they will move for Derek, and she can’t say she won’t hurt Cora more while trying to heal Derek.

“I mean,” Derek mumbles into the silence, “I don’t want to die or kill myself. I just don’t want to exist right now.”

And that should be so much worse than simply wanting to move away, to hear that her brother wants to not exist, but all Laura feels is numbed relief at not having to promise that they can move, at not having one more empty promise dangling from her lips. Derek shrugs, dejected, and then hobble-walks out to the couch.

Stiles sits next to him, and grabs the card and its envelope. He produces a pen from the depths of his cargo shorts and starts scribbling the numbers from the card onto the envelope.

Laura stands at the kitchen doorway and observes them for a moment. Derek curls into the corner of the couch, his face tucked into his arm, and Stiles uses his knees as a table to write on despite the fact that the coffee table is in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, breaking the silence. Both boys jerk and look to her;. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner, that I didn’t help. That I left you and Cora there.”

“You’re here now,” Stiles says, a sidelong glance at Derek. “So, make the future a better place than your past.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry or guilty or whatever,” Derek says. “I want you to be my sister.”

She blinks away tears. That she can do.

Laura smiles tentatively at Derek, who doesn’t look up from his arm. Stiles offers her a crooked grin and a thumbs up.

“Here.” He tosses the envelope on the table and tucks the card between Derek’s elbow and thigh. He jumps to his feet, jamming his pen back into its pocket. “Love to stay longer,” he says, breezily, “but my mom is probably wondering where I am. Don’t hesitate to call—any of us.”

In the quiet he leaves behind, Derek says, “I’m going to bed.” He lays the card on the table and takes the envelope with him.

And Laura is left alone with her still-aching heart and the sense that they haven’t averted the ‘situation.’ They have merely delayed it.

~ * ~

After a half an hour of Derek pretending to sleep, Laura goes back to her class. She checks on Cora, checks on him, and then heads back to _Emilio’s_. She takes her car this time, and he wonders if it’s so she can come back quickly if someone, probably that Stiles kid, calls her again.

He wonders how Stiles got involved. Was it Lydia Martin who called him or did Laura preemptively tell the staff at _Kitchen Fresh_ to help keep an eye on him? Is that why they gave him the card with all their numbers? But, then, why did his friends sign it too?

Derek sighs and rolls over. He doesn’t want to think this much. If it wasn’t Laura’s doing, then it means people do care about him, and that is something he isn’t sure he’s ready to experience. It’s hard enough to let Laura hug him so much.

He is positive that she isn’t about to come storming back in, watching him like he is actually suicidal, so he gets up and goes looking for Cora. He finds her in her room, lying on her air mattress and paging through one of her scientific manuals.

“Hey,” he says, quiet so he won’t startle her. She ignores him. “I was thinking of getting some ice cream.” He wasn’t, actually, but Cora loves anything chocolate, and it is still summer. Predictably, she drops the manual and springs off the bed.

“Laura left some money on top of the fridge,” she says, squirming past him. By the time he catches up to her, after taking a detour to grab his crutches from by the couch, she has already scooted a chair up to the refrigerator to stand on.

Laura left fifty dollars in small bills, and Derek carefully counts out the five singles that they will need for two ice creams and a small tip. He tucks the rest back into the decorative cup Laura uses, and Cora sets it back in its spot.

“ _Luana’s_?” Cora asks, practically skipping down the steps while he hobbles with the crutches. He locks the door behind him, tucking Benjamin’s spare key in his pocket.

“Cora, wait!” he huffs out, but she is already halfway up the block by the time he makes it down to the sidewalk. She glances back at him just before ducking into _Luana’s_ , the tiny ice cream parlor Laura always takes them to when they visit.

The blast of cold air that greets him when he manages to one-handedly open the door cools the sweat coating him, making him shiver. Inside, there is only an older couple eating sundaes in a booth. He feels their heavy stares as he awkwardly crutches to the counter where Cora is staring at the ice cream in the bunker, trying to decide between double-chocolate or chocolate-and-vanilla twist. Derek always gets strawberry. He likes the familiarity even if Cora likes to tease him that it means he is boring.

When he goes to pay for their cones—four dollars and fifteen cents for a double scoop of the twist and a single scoop of strawberry—Mrs. Halvershiem refuses to take the money.

“But,” he tries, sliding it closer to the register, “ice cream?”

Cora looks worried, holding her cone, waiting until Derek says it is okay to start eating.

“No, honey,” Mrs. Halvershiem says. “Your money’s no good today.”

He leaves the bills on the counter anyway and crutches to the only free-standing table. Cora accepts his cone from Mrs. Halvershiem and follows him. He leans his crutches against the edge of the table and hops into the tall chair, trying not to wince at the way his jars his ankle. Cora has almost as much trouble as him, but then again, she’s eleven and head and shoulders shorter than him.

The couple in the booth both snort derisively, and the man says, “Grooming her right now.”

Cora glares at her cone. Derek feels his face flushing. He remembers Peter sneaking him extra dessert sometimes and then demanding he pay him back with sexual favors. He gave his first blowjob for a slice of Boston cream pie. He will _never_ do that to Cora.

“Someone should help her, the poor dear. God knows it won’t be that harlot of a sister.”

Derek sees red. He can take the rumors about himself, but Laura worked hard to get away from their parents and make something of herself. She shouldn’t have some old jerks judging her just because they didn’t have to go through what she did.

A loud bang makes everyone jump and turn to where Mrs. Halvershiem is staring down at a metal paperweight that used to be on the register.

“Oops,” she says unconcerned, shrugging exaggeratedly. “Frank, Carol, if you’re done with your sundaes, you can leave.” The couple looks down at their half-finished ice creams.

“If I didn’t know any better,” the man, Frank, says, “I’d say you were trying to get rid of us, Alyssa.”

“No trying about it,” Mrs. Halvershiem replies cheerily. “You have thirty seconds to vacate my store before I call the Sheriff about some trespassers.”

“We’re paying customers,” Carol bursts out. She and Frank stay firmly seated. “If you throw anyone out, it should be that vile pervert.” She stabs a bony finger at Derek. Even though she is nowhere near enough to touch him, he still recoils.

Cora’s eyes burn with anger and her body shakes so hard she is having trouble staying in her chair. She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, Mrs. Halvershiem pulls out a cell phone and punches in a number.

“Hello, John? Alyssa Halvershiem. Listen, I’ve got a couple giving me trouble. Think you can spare someone to help?”

Frank and Carol look worried, hurriedly scooping melted ice cream into their mouths. Derek takes advantage of their distractedness to climb off his chair and pull Cora with him toward the door.

“Hey, hold it!” Mrs. Halvershiem says when Cora has her hand on the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I have something to tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek stutters out, nudging Cora so she will move. “We need to be somewhere. Maybe next time?”

Mrs. Halvershiem points at their table. Cora sighs huffily and sits. She eats her ice cream quickly, crunching through the cone loudly. Derek hands her his cone and she eats it too. He has no appetite.

They wait nearly seven minutes, according to the novelty clock with ice cream scoops for hands that hangs above the counter area, before Deputy Jordan walks through the door. Cora glares some more while Derek sinks down in his seat.

Deputy Jordan speaks with Mrs. Halvershiem quietly before heading to Frank and Carol’s booth. “Sir, Ma’am, you’ll have to leave now.” His tone is polite enough, but the way he is standing, loose, relaxed, one hand near his can of pepper spray, the other on his radio, says he is ready for trouble.

Finally, and with a last dirty look at Derek, Frank and Carol leave. Deputy Jordan sees them out, waving at both Hales and Mrs. Halvershiem.

Once the door closes firmly behind the deputy, Mrs. Halvershiem sits at their table and pulls Derek’s crutches away from him.

“Do you know why we named the store ‘ _Luana’s_ ’?” she asks.

Derek squirms and nods while Cora looks lost. “Luana was your daughter’s name,” he says softly.

Mrs. Halvershiem nods. “My beautiful baby,” she whispers sadly. She has tears in her eyes already. “You’re both too young to remember, I think. She died sixteen years ago.”

“Derek is almost sixteen,” Cora offers, shrugging when he frowns at her.

“I’ve heard the rumors around town, the ones Frank and Carol unfortunately decided to believe. I want you to know that I don’t believe them.” Mrs. Halvershiem puts a hand on the table, waits until Derek realizes what she wants and lets her touch his hand. She squeezes briefly and then lets go. Just like that.

“My Luana was hurt like you, Derek, by someone my husband and I trusted. The rumors then weren’t the same—instead of accusing her of hurting her brother, they claimed she’d been asking for it. Three months before her abuser was set to go to trial, I found my baby hanging in our attic.”

Derek flinches, feels the words burrowing into his skin, flaying him open. Cora stares unblinkingly at Mrs. Halvershiem.

“We used her college fund to open the store, to make it a safe haven for all the similar souls. Derek, I want you to know that you’ve always got somewhere to go when it gets too much. You too, Cora.” Mrs. Halvershiem pats both of their hands and heaves herself to her feet. She hands back Derek’s crutches and then busies herself by tidying the already neat counter space.

Numbed, wondering if he could end up like Luana Halvershiem, if he would be the one to hang the rope or if Kate or Peter would, Derek leads Cora to the door and back out into the heat of the afternoon.

Dazed, he almost misses the fact that Deputy Jordan is waiting for them.

He waves them over to his patrol car before Derek can steer Cora back toward the apartment.

“The Sheriff would like to offer his sympathies for the way the town is treating you and offers a protective detail if you desire.”

“We don’t desire,” Cora snaps. “I wanted a nice day out running errands with my sister and ice cream with my brother. Instead, all of us have had to deal with stupid people. You can’t protect us from their words.” She stomps away, and Deputy Jordan shrugs, almost helplessly.

“She’s right,” he says. “But, Derek, if anyone moves from verbally harassing you to physically assaulting you, let us know immediately. I would rather stop anyone from going that far. If you ever feel unsafe, call us.” He reaches into his left breast pocket, the one his nametag is pinned to, and pulls out a stack of business cards which he then hands to Derek. “This is every deputy’s number. And the Sheriff’s. Do not hesitate to call any of us if you need or even just want to.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises, crossing his fingers where they rest on his crutches. He still feels bad for going to Lydia instead of his sister. He knows it hurt Laura, especially after their discussion last night. Deputy Jordan notices the crossed fingers and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything else, so Derek hobbles off as fast as he can, swinging the crutches forward and hopping on his good foot.

He catches up to Cora just as she is going up the first flight of steps. “Laura’s home,” she says, pointing at their sister’s Ford Focus.

“It is after five,” he reasons. Surely Emilio wouldn’t have fired her for her response to his emotional crises, right? “Shit,” he says, realizing exactly how late it is. “I never got you lunch or supper.” Cora looks unimpressed.

“Laura bought me lunch at that stupid bistro she likes, and she promised to make mac-n-cheese tonight. You gave me ice cream. You’ve taken plenty of care of me. Don’t stress yourself worrying about me.”

Derek narrows his eyes as her, suspicious. “You’re being sarcastic,” he decides. She doesn’t respond, stomping loudly up the stairs, leaving him alone to maneuver as best he can.

Cora was right about the mac-n-cheese, but Derek is still too unsettled from the scene in _Luana’s_ to have much of an appetite right now, so he murmurs an excuse and goes to his air mattress. It sinks worryingly under his weight, but he doesn’t want to accidently make it flatter or pop it, so he just crawls onto the bed carefully. He tucks the cards from the deputies into his pillowcase and pulls his quilt over his head.

He can still hear the muffled voices of his sisters as they move around the apartment. Cora thumping into the bathroom to wash her hands from the ice cream while Laura plunks plates and cups onto the coffee table.

At first, all they talk about is Cora’s upcoming trip. Camp Bennington is doing a genetics fair this year. Cora is leaning more toward being a biologist than a chemist, so it’s the perfect camp for her. Derek tries not to feel resentment toward her for getting to leave this fucking town while he is stuck here unable to defend himself from people who think he raped his own sister. _He is not Peter_.

Suddenly, almost too quiet for him to catch, Laura says, “Peter is getting out on bail tomorrow.”

White noise drowns out the rest of what she says, replaced by a wheezing sound that grates on his nerves. It takes longer than he cares to admit before he realizes that he is the one making that punctured lung sound.

Peter is free. He knows Derek told on him. He’s coming after Cora, like he promised. He’s going to hurt them.

Derek sobs loudly, choking on the snot running down the back of his throat. He isn’t aware of the door banging open but he is aware of the body slamming into his, octopus limbs wrapping around him. He starts wheezing again, this time with a hitch and a whistle. Two punctured lungs. He can’t breathe. Oh, God, he can’t breathe. It hurts too much.

“—rek,” Laura calls. “Derek, breathe!” she taps gently at his cheeks, but she might as well have slapped him for how it jolts him back into full awareness. Gratefully, he gulps in air until he can breathe normally without panting. He doesn’t know who pulled the quilt down, but he is relieved the material isn’t still over his face.

“Peter,” he whimpers, reaching an arm out so Cora can curl tighter against him. “Peter’s going to come after us.”

Laura shakes her head. “He’s going to be released because Argent—Gerard? Kate’s dad—paid his bail, but we have a protection order against him _and_ he’s on an ankle monitor. He’s not getting anywhere close to us. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Now, it is Derek’s turn to shake his head. “He told me that if I ever ratted him out, he’d do what he did to me to Cora.”

“I still get to go to camp, right?” Cora asks in a voice that is so, so small. Laura looks stricken, like she’s going to outright forbid it, but this camp is important to Cora’s future. Why should the threat of Peter get to take that from her? Besides, he’ll probably be too busy coming after Derek to bother with Cora.

He digs into his pillowcase for Deputy Jordan’s card. Laura and Cora stare at the other cards, and Laura starts sorting them. She hands over her phone before Derek can ask.

Deputy Jordan answers on the second ring.

“We’ll need that protection detail after all,” Derek says. “For Cora, when she goes to camp on Friday.”

Deputy Jordan says, “Let me talk to the Sheriff and get something worked out. Is this a good number to teach you at?”

“Yeah, this is Laura’s phone.”

“Good. And don’t worry: we won’t let anyone near your family.” Deputy Jordan hangs up, and Derek gives the phone back to Laura.

“You’ll get to go to camp,” he promises, sounding more sure of himself than he feels. “The Sheriff will make sure of it.” Oh, God, now he’s making promises like a regular adult. That’s not a good thing. Cora looks cautiously happy, so he tries to let it slide, thinking he won’t make any more promises.

“Let’s go finish supper while we wait for a callback,” Laura suggests. She hands Derek the cards to put away and then helps him to the couch.

The mac-n-cheese is cold, but he finds that he is suddenly ravenous. Panic attacks, he thinks wryly. He rubs at his still-aching chest and grimaces.

He isn’t sure he trusts the Sheriff to get them protection, or even really to have anyone to go with Cora to camp. And he regrets promising Cora it. She’ll probably hate him if it turns out she can’t go.

He hopes that Peter will be too busy defending himself from the same bastards who believe Derek hurt Cora to actually come after them. He doesn’t even want to think about Kate. Kate who probably hasn’t even been accused the way Derek has.

Laura had said something about Mr. Argent being in town too. The trifecta of Derek’s nightmares.

He wants to trust that things will work out, but he is suspicious by nature. He has probably used up his allotted good luck already.

He takes another bite of his food and tries to smile while Laura and Cora chatter next to him.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is me putting this story on hiatus.
> 
> I cannot tell you the absolute relief I had after I made my decision. So, I apologize to everyone who checks this story frequently. I'll try to come back to it soon, but I've found I've been under a bit much stress lately and something has to give.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, subscribing, bookmarking, and pressing the kudos button.
> 
> gremlins out.


	11. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two warnings: skip to end notes to view them.
> 
> Not back from hiatus quite yet. Just had a moment or three to edit the chapters I already had typed.
> 
> Thanks for your patience.
> 
> As always, if something bothers you, let me know. I can't fix a problem I'm not aware of.
> 
> Also, I have never been to Redding. I just looked up some little information that I needed. I am aware that most airports, depending on size, offer car rental in house. I needed a minor deus ex machina, if you will, so I willfully ignored that fact. Feel free to correct me if you want.

~ * ~

Gerard enjoys the flight as best he can. He hates wasting time like this, going to fix his daughter’s stupid mistakes. At least she’s not pregnant with the boy’s child.

His long time associate, Deucalion, indicates that the flight is nearly over. The Redding Municipal Airport isn’t large by any means, but at least they were willing to approve the flight plan on such short notice. They also have a car rental outlet nearby so he and Deuc won’t have to go into Redding-proper to find accommodations.

When Kate fucks up, she fucks up bad. Gerard fully intends to bring her back to his ranch with him if the local yahoo sheriff and the backwater judge dismiss all charges against her.

According to Julia Baccari, the lawyer Gerard keeps on hand for all of his family’s indiscretions, Kate has been charged with raping her boyfriend, Peter Hale, along with the accusation of having sex with a minor.

“Final approach,” Deuc says over the headset. Gerard nods, securing his belt more firmly. Deucalion may be an experienced pilot, but Gerard didn’t get to where he is now just by trusting other people’s abilities blindly.

Chris may scoff at him now, but at 72, Gerard is still independent and moves better than men decades younger. And, he is successful enough at what he does that he doesn’t have to worry about his future.

If he thought Kate had a head on her shoulders, he would have taught her to take over his empire. But, from a young age, she was defiant of his rules. Too much of her mother in her, God rest Abigail’s soul. He hopes she has learned the lesson of not leaving evidence, but he knows she is sloppy. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if the boy she sexed up wasn’t the first underage conquest she’s had.

She has always liked sex, crawling into his bed a few times when her classmates couldn’t fuck her good enough.

The wheels bump onto the tarmac, and Deucalion guides the plane to a coasting stop in front of one of the stalls for overnight-visiting planes. For a long moment, neither Gerard nor Deuc moves. The silence in the cockpit isn’t complete as both the engines still hum despite being shut off.

Gerard lets Deuc do his post-flight ritual of checking all the switches, radioing the control tower, and breaking out a tiny bottle of champagne. They each get a mouthful of the bitter liquid, and Gerard is hard pressed not to just spit it out.

“Ready?” he asks, and Deuc grins maniacally at him. Gerard shakes his head. He’s fond of Deucalion, but sometimes he pushes even Gerard’s formidable patience.

They disembark, making a detour to the storage in the tail to gather their go-kits, a couple of duffle bags packed with changes of clothes and other necessities for jobs. Gerard isn’t planning on spending more than a couple of days in Beacon Hills. Long enough to make Kate’s charges vanish without incriminating himself.

He’ll start with that simpering fool she pretends to date. Maybe a good one-two? Peter looks like he bruises easily. Then after Peter retracts his accusation, Gerard will go the boy.

The walk from the hangar to the check in desk is brisk. Why slow down, Gerard thinks, when he still takes ten mile hikes every other day. He catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye, as he waits for Deucalion to make his flirtatious exchange with the associate stuck at the desk. He turns, scanning the sparse crowd, pleasantly surprised to see his daughter-in-law standing by a double row of chairs. He blows an air kiss at her just to see her squirm. So prim and proper is she.

Victoria used to be a model to pay for her schooling. She’s a nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial hospital and at a mental health clinic associated with the hospital. Tall, thin, and regal, she still wears the latest in fashion when she’s not on shift. She isn’t often on shift anymore, as she is trying to break into the private health care sector.

“Gerard,” she says, tone bitter.

“Victoria,” he returns, as warm as she is cold. It might have something to do with his calling her a whore to her face when he found out about Chris and her relationship, to be fair to her, Chris was the one pursuing _and_ he had taken her virginity.

“It’s good to see you,” Victoria says, looking past him to Deucalion. She has always liked the Englishman. Deuc kisses her hand, and she smiles at him.

“Why are you here?” Gerard asks. Deuc winces at him. He shrugs, softens his tone. “It’s so nice that you came to pick us up, but I didn’t think I’d asked you to.” Deuc shakes his head, but Gerard is done trying to appease Victoria. She will answer him.

She doesn’t respond, and he fights back a wave of irritation. Instead, she leads them out to her red Chevy Tahoe. In a sea of beiges and whites, it stands out. He has always thought that she liked the color red so much because of her hair. The one time he mentioned it to his son, Chris had shrugged and told him it suited her.

It does, but it is also attention drawing, and the whole point of this trip is to be as forgettable as possible.

Deucalion takes Gerard’s duffle from him and throws it with his in the trunk while Gerard goes to climb into the front passenger seat. Victoria stops him with a hand on his chest.

“I did a blood draw on Derek Hale,” she says. “He came to Beacon County Medical Health Clinic where I work for an intake exam. I kept a little bit of it to match DNA on Kate’s case, but the rest of it is yours to do with as you please.”

When she pulls her hand back, she tucks a small vial in his breast pocket. He tolls it in the pocket, pushing it deep into the corner. He nods in thanks.

They don’t exchange another word while she drives them the three-quarter mile to the car rental outlet. Victoria drives with more caution than she usually exhibits, but Gerard bites his tongue. They will be away from her soon enough.

Deucalion switches the bags to the nondescript white Econoline cargo van while Gerard fills out the paperwork, showing the spare identification he keeps for things like this. He and Deuc wave Victoria away, and then he climbs behind the wheel and Deuc buckles into the passenger seat. Redding is only about half an hour away from Beacon Hills. With Gerard’s lead foot, they should be at the courthouse with time to spare before Kate’s arraignment hearing.

And after that, Gerard will talk to that worm, Peter, and see if he can’t persuade him to drop his claim against Kate.

One thing at a time makes a neatly ordered list. Gerard loves lists. Mental lists. It does no good to write down an itinerary only to have it fall into the wrong hands.

As they speed, flying toward their destination, Deucalion pulls free a tablet from his inside jacket pocket and starts working on digitally coloring a picture of a tree. He’s been doing this on the trips he accompanies Gerard to be the muscle. He calls it stress relief. Gerard calls him crazy.

But, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their missions, he doesn’t really care what Deuc does. And who knows, maybe today is the day he’ll finally finish it, and Gerard won’t have to see it anymore. Although, whenever he examines it closely, he swears it looks familiar. Almost like the root system in a cellar out in the middle of the Beacon Hills preserve where Gerard’s first body is buried.

Maybe he’ll take Deuc out to see it when they’re done. Right now, though, he needs to be Kate’s dad whether she likes it or not.

~ * ~

It’s official; John hates lawyers. Instead of arguing to keep Kate Argent and Peter Hale behind bars, neither lawyer mentioned the persistent and continued sexual assault of Derek Hale. And, both agreed that since it was a first time offense, bail should be lenient.

Kate Argent’s had flown into town just to pay his daughter’s bail. Peter’s bail has been paid by his trust fund. Additionally, Peter has an ankle monitor. Kate does not.

Now, John is scrambling to make sure he has the funds to keep the Hale children protected. Heaven knows it won’t come from their parents. Talia is still denying what Peter did to her son while James has shut down entirely. Both were released on their own recognizance.

“Sir,” Parrish calls from his desk. John looks up from timesheets and budget logs. He waves for him to continue. “Deputy Graeme has vacation time coming up, right?”

Graeme frowns slightly, and John winces at her expression. “I wanted to suggest it myself,” she says, which is not what he is expecting. She turns to John. “Cora, the youngest Hale is going to a week-long camp in Sacramento. I was thinking I could tag along as a chaperone and keep an eye on her.”

John blinks at her. “Are you sure? Weren’t you going to use this vacation to visit your daughter?”

Graeme shrugs. “My daughter teaches school in the Sacramento area so I can do both.”

John looks down at his budget. “You’d still officially be on vacation so we couldn’t pay you.” He gives her his most apologetic smile, but she waves it off.

“I’d rather that little girl feel safe than worry about a jurisdiction headache.”

He claps her shoulder. “You are a godsend, Tara,” he says. “For now, though, we need to set up a rotation to keep an eye on the perpetrators.”

Parrish’s hand shoots up. “I can keep an eye on Peter Hale when my shift starts.”

Votsky straightens at his desk. “Sir, I realize my relationship with Laura will call my objectivity into question, so if it’s all right, I’ll take protective duty of Laura and her siblings.”

“Inside only,” John says. “And we can’t pay you for it either.”

“Understood.”

John retreats to his office to work out the rest of the schedule. So far, he has a night shift deputy by the name of Lucas Dormi watching Kate Argent over night. Kate is being allowed to stay at her brother’s house despite the fact that Chris has a daughter in Derek’s grade.

Peter Hale is living in a room at his sister’s house, an arrangement of at least seven years. They have offered the apartment over the garage as an alternative address for Peter if necessary. But, John vetoed that immediately. He’s still waiting on the evidence to come back to prove that it isn’t another crime scene.

He thinks back to the arraignment hearing. The judge, the Honorable Amelia Mollie, hadn’t seen any reason to have the lawyers elaborate on the charges, which, while not unusual, John thinks was a huge mistake on her part.

He doesn’t like Judge Mollie because she has a history of siding with the females, even if they are the perpetrators. He doesn’t think Kate is going to get more than a slap on the wrist. Peter is a wild card, but Mollie can’t very well be lenient with Kate and not with Peter for essentially the same crime.

A knock on the door interrupts his musing, and he looks up from his still mostly blank rotation to find Mayor Violet Calhoun standing in his doorway.

“Madam Mayor,” he says, standing up to offer his hand for a quick shake.

“Sir Sheriff,” she says, her smile staying on her lips and nowhere else. “I need to speak to you regarding this disastrous case.”

“Of course,” John says neutrally. Inwardly, he cringes at her choice of words. The case is tragic, not disastrous.

“Beacon Valley has asked to host the trial,” Calhoun says. She digs through the attaché case she very rarely is seen without and hands John a stack of papers. “I’m thinking of granting their request. Sure, we’ll lose most of the revenue it will generate.” She waves a hand dismissively while he stares at her incredulously. “But,” she continues blithely, “honestly, I don’t want Beacon Hills to profit any more off the pain and suffering of that poor child.”

He nods in understanding. All day, his dispatchers have been fielding calls from ‘concerned’ citizens reporting Derek Hale’s ‘suspicious’ activities. Hell, he had taken a call himself from Alyssa Halvershiem regarding more mistreatment of that boy yesterday before suppertime.

“John,” Calhoun says, “I’m not asking you for anything illegal, but at the special meeting tomorrow night, would you show your support for your mayor?”

“Violet,” John says, “you’ve got whatever you need.”

She nods sharply. “Read those before the meeting.” She taps the pages. “Let me know of any candidates.” Then she smoothes down her blazer, picks up her attaché, and marches out of the department.

He glances down at the cover sheet, sighing when he sees it’s a call for Talia Hale’s dismissal from City Council.

Good.

~ * ~

Claudia has lunch in the oven, keeping warm for when John can swing by on his ever-moving lunch hour. The bakery is closed for a second day in a row while she sorts out the paperwork of her three new hires. She plans to use the afternoon to do inventory at the bakery with Stiles’ and the clerks’ help.

Stiles has already eaten and is hiding up in his room.

Claudia waits for an hour before she caves and starts eating. And then John comes home.

He locks his gun in the safe in his home office and washes his hands before kissing her cheek and dishing up a healthy portion.

“I still say it was my fault what that woman was doing to that child,” she says.

“What?” John pauses, a forkful of meatloaf on its way to his mouth.

She refuses to look up from her plate, scooping the mashed potatoes into a mountain and then flattening it with the tines of her fork.

“Claud, you didn’t make Kate abuse that boy. You had no way of knowing who she was ‘seeing.’ Anyway, it seems like she was in an abusive relationship with Peter too.” He continues eating while Claudia tries to reconcile loud, brash Kate with the far more subdued Peter Hale.

She shakes her head. “She used to tell me about it, about using what I suggested. It was almost like she was bragging about what she was doing.”

She shoves her plate away, and John glances up from his. “Why did they do it?” she asks.

“Why does anyone do anything?”

It is as good an answer as any, but it leaves her feeling unsatisfied. At least, now, when she tugs her plate back and puts a bite of the mashed potatoes into her mouth, it doesn’t taste like ash.

“I want to start a collection jar for the Hale children,” Claudia says. “Something to help them out. It can’t be easy.” She is thinking of Laura, who used to babysit Stiles so long ago. In fact, it was her old babysitter, Jodi Michaels, who suggested the quiet, respectful thirteen year old when she abruptly left the job.

“At the bakery?” John asks, and Claudia shrugs to say ‘where else?’

“Maybe you should talk to Alyssa Halvershiem. I think she would be willing to help you with that.”

“But?” Claudia prompts. She knows John well. She knows when he gives her helpful suggestions they are usually followed by a ‘but.’

“But, you might have nasty messages left in the jars or see a decrease in business. For some reason, this whole town knows what happened to that boy, and their reaction is to act like he is going to turn around and do it to his sister.”

“How horrible,” she murmurs, appetite completely gone. “I will still do something, but you’re right: I shouldn’t give anyone another way to attack them.”

“Mom!” Stiles calls as he thumps down the stairs. “Can I skip inventory today? Please? Derek’s got an appointment and no one else can take him.”

“Son,” John begins, but Claudia stops him.

“It’s wonderful you want to help them, but can you have Laura Hale call me, just to officially arrange the time?”

“Fine,” Stiles says easily and shoves his phone at her. She notices that it is already on.

“Hello?” she says, phone in place against her ear.

“Mrs. Stilinski?” a young woman—Laura—says. “Hi, if it’s okay, I need to borrow Stiles for a bit this afternoon. I know he has duties at the bakery but—”

“What time is the appointment?”

“Two this afternoon. I can pick him up after, but I don’t have anyone else I trust with Derek.”

Claudia feels a swell of pride at those words directed toward her son. “Is Derek okay with Stiles taking him?”

“He is,” Laura says softly after a short pause. “Thank you.”

Claudia hands the phone back to Stiles and listens with half an ear as he irons out the finer details of what he is doing in about an hour. Before he goes back upstairs, he hugs both of them, and she whispers in his ear, “I’m proud of you.”

~ * ~

It isn’t fair, Derek thinks, curled up in the front seat of Stiles’ mom’s Jeep. His ankle throbs today—a result of him trying to make it to the bathroom without his crutches and without any help since Benjamin had already left for work before he was able to wake up enough to sit up.

Laura had come running at his muffled scream of pain when he jammed his foot, out of the brace too, into the doorjamb. He is lucky he was able to convince her he didn’t need to go back to the hospital to have it reset.

As it is, she is only letting Stiles take him to the appointment with Dr. Deaton because Emilio had called to threaten to let her go if she didn’t show up to teach her class. Also, Stiles promised to make him use his crutches, and he is going to hang out with Cora during his session.

Now, Cora and his crutches are in the backseat, and Derek is sulking because Stiles had to boost him into the Jeep.

The ride is silent, not even the radio playing, while Stiles navigates the streets and Cora pretends to nap. Derek could ask her what she is planning on doing during his intake exam, which hopefully does not go like it had with Dr. Morrell’s severe nurse, but Cora has been quietly hostile since he drank the last of the orange juice this morning.

Dr. Deaton’s office is located on the outskirts of town and shares a parking lot with an old, well-kept, empty veterinary clinic. Stiles parks as close to the front of the health clinic’s door as he can. He hurries around the side of the Jeep and has the passenger door open before Derek can finish unbuckling. Stiles pulls out Derek’s crutches and helps him down so he can grasp them.

“Want me to walk you in?” Stiles asks. He glances to where Cora hasn’t moved. Derek follows his gaze.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll be okay on my own. Just. Please take good care of her?”

“The best,” Stiles promises. He still looks torn, so Derek crutches away, heading for the low-rise ramp that leads to the health clinic. He almost sighs in relief when he hears the Jeep’s engine grind back to life, gears squeaking as Stiles shifts into reverse and pulls away.

A deep breath does nothing to settle his nerves before he shoves his shoulder into the big glass door and leverages it open so he can hop through quickly before it actuates shut.

Inside is bland. Sturdy, standard chairs line two walls; a small side table tucking into the corner where they meet is the only interruption. There is a sad-looking leafy plant of some variety sitting by the receptionist’s enclosed desk. Framed posters of serene backgrounds covered with inspirational quotes hang on the off-white walls.

At least the place isn’t painted in gray, Derek thinks to himself.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist, a young-looking redheaded woman with a singular beauty mark on one cheek and red, red lips, asks.

Derek clears his throat and crutches up to the partially opened window. “Hi, yes. My name is Derek Hale. I have a two o’clock appointment with Dr. Deaton?” He winces at the uptick in his voice. That was not supposed to be a question.

“Certainly, Mr. Hale. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll be right with you to perform the intake exam.”

Derek nods sharply and picks a seat under a particularly inspiring waterfall. He does not have to wait long. He is the only patient here right now.

“I’m Jennifer,” the receptionist says as she leads him down a hallway on the left side of the enclosed desk. Tucked into the corner is a tiny room with a scale and a counter stocked with a blood pressure monitor, a stethoscope, a jar of cotton balls, and an opened box of nitrile gloves.

“I’m a nurse.”

Derek bites his tongue so a sarcastic reply won’t slip out unbidden. He does not need to alienate this nurse too, especially before she exams him.

“Please step onto the scale and try to stand as flat-footed as possible.” Derek wobbles onto the scale, leaving his crutches leaning against the wall. Nurse Jennifer slides the weights around until the bar balances.

“Thank you,” she says, handing him his crutches so he can step off the scale safely. Nurse Jennifer talks him through each procedure before she does it, and she doesn’t do a blood draw.

It is on the tip of his tongue to ask about it, but he doesn’t want to remind her if she’s forgotten.

Once she is satisfied with his information, she points him toward the sitting room again. He has barely gotten to sit down before she calls him up to her window again.

“Dr. Deaton is ready to see you,” she says. “He’ll perform an assessment and that may take a while. Each session is supposed to be fifteen minutes long. Unless, Dr. Deaton determines you need more time. Just follow the hallway to the right until you come to the third door on the right. Knock for entry.”

“Thank you,” Derek says quietly, making his way down a corridor with many doors, all on the right. Each door has a colored star painted on it with a name in black in the center. The third door has ‘Dr. A. Deaton’ on it. He knocks gently.

A soft voice calls, “Come in.” Derek holds his crutches with one hand while he twists the knob and shoves the door open.

The room is smaller than he would have imagined. There is barely enough room for a desk cluttered with a circular tabletop Zen garden, opened box of tissues, and full pencil jar, the rolling chair behind the desk, two standard chairs in front of it, a plush loveseat along the far wall, and a short bookcase crammed full of books and toys next to the loveseat.

A bald man with a goatee and permanently arched eyebrows sits in the rolling chair. He taps his lips with a slender silver pen. “Welcome,” he says.

“Hi,” Derek replies, a bit shortly. He winces when the door slams shut behind him. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right, habit of that door.” Dr. Deaton waves him to a chair. “Please, sit.”

Derek sinks into the chair closest to the door and sets his crutches on the floor at his feet.

Dr. Deaton looks down at the slim folder in front of him and makes a mark. “Where would you like to begin?” he asks.

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, I suppose I should want to talk about what happened to me, but I don’t want to.”

“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what has ‘happened’ to you, and we’ll go from there?”

He shrugs again and draws in a deep breath. “My uncle r—” he freezes, mouths the word and then shakes his head. He isn’t there yet, and he knows it. “He really hurt me. For a long time. And then, his girlfriend did the same thing—something similar?—to me.”

Dr. Deaton taps the page but doesn’t write anything. “Derek, I want to ask you some questions. I want you to say the first answer that pops into your head, unedited. Okay?”

“I guess.”

“Very good.” Dr. Deaton flips to a new page in the folder. “Who is your favorite family member?”

“Cora,” Derek says immediately. He bites his lip to keep the explanation at bay. Dr. Deaton stares blankly at him.

“You are editing yourself,” he says, disappointed. “Tell me, what else were you going to say?”

Once again, Derek’s shoulders rise and fall. “I was just going to explain why I like Cora best.” Dr. Deaton nods, so he continues, “She’s the only one who isn’t treating me any differently now that she knows about what Pete—my uncle and his girlfriend did to me.”

“Has someone else changed?”

“Yes. My sister, Laura. She acts regretful, and I think she stops herself from telling me off.”

“Do you feel you need to be told off?”

“Yes?” Derek wants to shrug again and forcibly keeps his shoulders against the back of the chair and unmoving. “I’ve been hiding—staying in bed instead of facing the day. Laura is working. Benjamin is working. And Cora is eleven so she can’t work. But, she’s going to camp soon.”

Dr. Deaton leans forward, pen discarded on the desk, as he steeples his fingers and rests his chin on his pointer fingers. “Do you believe, Derek, that you don’t have the right to take time for yourself and decide how you want to approach the world again?”

“What?” Derek asks stupidly. Did Dr. Deaton just ask him—

“Do you believe that you don’t have the right to hide in your bed?”

He did. “Um,” Derek says, scratching at his chin. Great, he forgot to shave again this morning. It itches and he keeps scratching. Dr. Deaton stares at him unblinkingly. It is a bit unnerving. “I should contribute to the household. I mean, it’s my fault Laura has to take care of Cora and me.”

“Do you really believe that?” Dr. Deaton shifts slightly, so he can keep his gaze focused on Derek’s eyes. Derek refuses to meet it. His soul, what is left of it anyway, feels bare and exposed, as if Dr. Deaton is excavating it for the good that remains. “Do you believe that it is your fault what happened to you?”

“I should have told someone,” Derek whispers. “I could have.” Embarrassingly, he starts crying. “I didn’t understand what Peter was doing when he got caught the first time. A part of me thinks that I shouldn’t remember it. I was three.”

Dr. Deaton does a good job masking if Derek’s words shock him. Or maybe he once made a face and it stuck that way for good. Either way, his impassionate mask makes Derek cry harder, sobbing and hiccupping too hard to speak.

“Derek,” Dr. Deaton says softly, coming around the desk and offering the box of tissues to him, “what your uncle did to you is not your fault. It’s his. It wasn’t up to you to keep his secret or to tell them either. You’ve gone through a traumatic event—several in fact—and it’s okay to be hurt and to hide away. It’s okay to be mad at the world or at people in the world. It’s okay to start healing.”

He sits back on his heels, glancing at a clock hanging above the door. “Normally,” he says, “sessions last fifteen minutes. We’ve been here for nearly that long already. I think you would benefit from a longer session than a shorter one.”

Derek remains silent while Dr. Deaton goes back to his seat. He fiddles with the pen again.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do today,” Dr. Deaton finally says. “I want you to talk about anything and everything. Tell me why you keep scratching your stubble. Tell me what you like to do for fun. Tell me about your friends, about the weather, about everything.”

It sounds easy enough. And Dr. Deaton didn’t even mention Peter or Kate. Maybe he can do this. Derek opens his mouth.

Of course, it goes badly. Derek starts talking about Isaac Lahey and his trouble with his father, and V. Boyd and his neglectful parents, and Erica Reyes and her epilepsy and bullying and he starts crying again.

Dr. Deaton lets him. He keeps handing him the tissue box so that Derek can tug another square free to wipe at his eyes and blow his nose. Around the fifth tissue, he calms down enough to sit quietly. And Dr. Deaton lets him do that too.

“I think you need a few sessions,” he says, kindly.

Derek breathes deeply for a long moment, clutching a used tissue tightly. “How often do I have to come back?” His voice shakes, but at least he was able to say the words.

“We’ll play it by ear,” Dr. Deaton decides. “I don’t want to overwhelm you like I did today, although I think it is good for you to let your emotions rule for a bit. How does Monday afternoon sound? You’ll have tomorrow and the weekend to think about what else you want to tell me, about how you want to communicate with me, and then I’ll see you every other day as long as you need me to.”

Derek nods. Dr. Deaton holds up his hands before gently laying them on Derek’s knees, squeezing briefly, and letting go.

“Talk to Jennifer at the front desk to set up the appointment for Monday. I’m also going to have her give you my cell phone number. The records can be subpoenaed if need be, so please be aware of that. The actual content is protected under doctor-patient confidentiality laws.

“I will be assigning you short tasks to complete before each appointment. For this weekend, I want you to write down any questions you want answered, whether they are questions you yourself can answer or would like someone else to answer for you.”

He reaches out to clasp Derek’s hand, gripping it as briefly as he touched him earlier. “You are brave, Derek. Do not let anyone else tell you differently—including yourself. I will see you Monday.”

He stands up and offers Derek help up from the chair before retrieving his crutches for him. Then, he holds the door open so that Derek can hop-walk back to the waiting room where Jennifer fills out an appointment card when he asks for a spot Monday.

Through the large picture window, he can see Laura’s car, Laura leaning against the hood. She scuffs at the ground with her beat-up sneakers before her head shoots up and she catches sight of him.

He has enough time to wonder if Stiles will be the one dropping him at his appointments every other day and if Laura is paying him for the time he misses at the bakery because of it, before Laura is in the lobby and barreling straight for him.

She crashes into him without warning, hugging him so tightly he feels his ribs creak in protest. She pulls back, smiling brightly at him and running her fingers over his forehead, sweeping through the hair there. He blinks in surprise, staring down at her. When did he get taller than her?

“Hey, so I need you to make supper tonight,” she says, leading him to her car. “Benjamin is working a double tonight, and I’m teaching a bridal party. I want to hear as much as you’re willing to tell me, but I won’t be home until really late.”

She takes his crutches and shoves them in the empty backseat. Stiles must still be watching Cora then.

Gingerly, Derek folds himself down until he can pull his broken ankle into the car before Laura bustles past, shutting his door for him. He buckles his seatbelt and waits for Laura to start driving.

He wants to ask her about supper, like what he’s supposed to make. He’s positive she left written instructions for supper at the apartment, but she is usually a verbal person.

They turn left instead of right at the intersection, and Derek raises an eyebrow at Laura.

“Cora’s at _Kitchen Fresh_. We’re picking her up now.”

Derek nods to signify that he understands and remains silent. He thinks he should be talking to Laura, about what Dr. Deaton said, about coming back on Monday, about supper. Hell, he can feel the words bubbling in his chest, but somewhere between there and his mouth, they vanish, and it is easier to stare out of his window at the scenery than to let a syllable pass his lips.

He wonders who is paying for him to talk to Dr. Deaton. There is no way Laura and Benjamin can afford it, and even with the money he let Cora keep, he wouldn’t have been able to pay either.

“There is lasagna in the freezer,” Laura says, interrupting his thoughts suddenly, breaking the silence, and making Derek jump at the burst of sound. “Instructions are on the fridge. Start cooking it so that it’s done by 6:30.”

Derek nods again, aware that Laura is focusing on the road and would probably like a vocal response. Tough. Doesn’t matter because they are pulling into a parking space in front of the bakery now anyway.

No other cars are parked nearby, and there is a sign on the door.

Laura gets out, says, “Stay here,” and raps on the bakery’s door. Mrs. Stilinski opens it to let her inside.

Bored, Derek examines the façade of the building with its large painted glass windows and the false front. It isn’t a terribly tall building—no building in Beacon Hills stands above four stories—but the bike shop next door dwarfs it. _Kitchen Fresh_ is one of only seventeen original buildings, remodeled and retooled for this century, to still be standing. Of course, back in the day, it used to be the county jailhouse, and, briefly, City Hall.

Claudia Stilinski, who inherited the building from a great-uncle-or-something, has taken wonderful care of it. Derek’s mom was always talking about her in glowing terms. That was what made Derek decide to apply for a job from her.

His mom and Mrs. Stilinski once were friends, and he had thought he would have a good chance at being hired. Well, thanks to his stupid ankle, he can kiss any job including his usual lawn and pool maintenance services goodbye.

It is disheartening to be the most useless guest Laura and Benjamin could have asked for.

Laura returns, Cora in tow, before he can do more than wipe at the sudden burn of tears in his eyes.

Neither of them speak when Cora wriggles into the backseat over his crutches, feet propped up on the back of Derek’s seat, and Laura takes her place behind the wheel. Derek does not think he is imagining the furious look on Laura’s face.

The drive is, once again, silent. Cora taps a steady beat on the back of his seat that Derek can feel, but instead of irritating him, it makes him glad to know that she is there. Laura, though, seems to get angrier and angrier with every stop sign they pass through.

“The nerve,” Laura spits when they are almost back to the apartment. “It is a good thing you didn’t come in with me,” she continues, squeezing Derek’s arm too briefly to feel his shudder at the sudden, unwarned touch.

“What happened?” he asks Cora, getting a solid thump in response. She refuses to look at him, staring instead at her high tops.

Laura sighs heavily. “Do you remember that I told you Kate Argent’s father was in town to pay her bail?”

Derek freezes.

“He was in the bakery—not sure why since they were closed for inventory. Deputy Parrish was there too.”

“And where was Kate?” Derek manages to ask, his voice cracking and warbling. Embarrassing.

“She wasn’t there,” Laura says. “She’s probably not allowed within so many feet of minors.”

“Is Kate’s dad going to come after us?”

“I don’t know.” Laura grits her teeth as she pulls into her assigned parking spot in front of the apartment building. “He certainly sounded threatening. Deputy Parrish assured me that we’re getting the protective detail soon.”

“I hate this town,” Cora snaps, kicking her door open and crawling out. Laura sighs, running to catch up to her while Derek pulls out his crutches and makes sure the car doors are shut properly.

Laura comes back to lock the doors. “I hate this town too,” she admits. “I think Ben and I might move after the trial. You and Cora can come with us.”

“Won’t you be our guardians?” Derek asks. He knows, logically, that even were Laura to assume guardianship, she will still have to go through rigorous training. It might be easier and cheaper to let Cora and him go into foster care.

Laura shrugs. She pockets her keys and then walks up the steps behind him, stopping him before he goes into the apartment. “It depends,” she says, quietly, “on if it’s decided that I’m unfit to act as your guardian. But, don’t worry about that. It’s not your concern.”

“It’s not?” Derek doesn’t mean for it to sound so sarcastic and mean, but at least it makes Laura smile if a bit sadly.

“Don’t worry about it,” she repeats. “I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

Her phone rings then, and she checks it, swearing at the number that pops up. “It’s Emilio. I have to go. Lasagna is in the freezer. I love you.” She runs down the steps and leaps into her car, pulling away quickly.

Derek shakes his head and pushes the door open. He crutches in, leans them against the wall by the couch, and looks around. No Cora. He tries the kitchen first and finds her sitting at the table with a stack of copier paper. She doesn’t look up when he pulls out a chair and sits next to her.

“How are you today?” he asks softly.

“How do you think?” she retorts. “That same fucking idiot still thinks you raped me, and a wrinkled penis of a man said he was coming to get you.”

Derek furrows his brow. “Cora, did Deputy Jordan—Parrish—hear the…man make that threat?”

At last, Cora looks up from her random scribbles. “No?” she says, uncertainty in her voice. “He was busy escorting Mrs. Walsh out. She’s the one running all over town saying that stuff about you.”

“Cora,” Derek interrupts hoarsely, hand twitching as he reaches for her. Her eyes widen as she reacts to his panic. “Cora, did Peter ever bring Kate here?”

Cora blanches, and Derek knows he doesn’t look any better. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “Did he?”

“Go, get the deputies’ cards from my pillowcase,” he instructs her. “I’m going to make sure the door is locked. Dial any of the numbers. Hurry!” Cora scampers off, and Derek hobble-walks as fast as he can without his crutches.

He reaches the door just as it slams open, the edge of it smashing into his head. He barely registers staggering backward, stepping wrong on his ankle, and falling because almost immediately afterward, he is stuck again by the size ten boot of a wrinkled penis of a man and everything goes painfully, frighteningly dark.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: First: Gerard heavily implies that he has had sex with Kate before (headcanon of mine: Gerard sexually abused Kate due to the fact that his wife had passed some time earlier and Chris was old enough to be out of the house which left Kate alone with her father). Second: chapter ends on a cliffhanger. Sort of. I think.
> 
> Thank you for the comments on previous chapters; they left me wordless aside from a simple, inadequate 'thank you.'
> 
> I'm working on another writing-process-post on [My tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I will post Chapters Eleven and Twelve tonight but then I'll be gone again for hopefully less than a month.
> 
> Thanks to all who read and kudos and subscribe and double-thanks to those who comment.


	12. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if something bothers you. Thanks.
> 
> Again, I have never been to northern California. In this story, Beacon County takes the place of Trinity County. Humboldt and Shasta Counties are both very real, and I apologize if my use of them is too unrealistic.

~ * ~

Jordan stays at the bakery longer than he planned. Mrs. Stilinski had called him when Mrs. Walsh barged her way in to berate Cora Hale again. And when Jordan had come in, an old man had followed him in too.

It is a circus with Mrs. Stilinski, her son, and two of her other workers trying to do inventory while he tries to get Mrs. Walsh to leave peacefully and the old man hangs around the dark haired clerk.

“My grandfather,” she explains, looking unhappily at the man.

Mrs. Walsh, even after being handcuffed and handed off to Kincaid, keeps screaming about the evil of supporting rapists like Kate Argent and Derek Hale. The old man’s beady-eyed gaze flickers at her words.

Mrs. Stilinski shoves a box of assorted sweet rolls into Jordan’s arms and waves him away when he asks if she wants him to stay through the rest of their inventory, to make sure people like Mrs. Walsh don’t sneak in again.

Laura Hale shows up too before he can do more than stammer out thanks for the rolls.

She takes one look at the beady-eyed old man and drags Cora away by her arm. Jordan jogs to catch up to her before she leaves.

“Look,” he says, flinching back when she turns her glare on him, “we’re really close to figuring out a constant protective detail for you and your siblings. The mayor will be holding a special meeting tomorrow to approve the funds, if you would like to attend.” She ignores him. Right, this is something Votsky could have told her at home. “The Sheriff will probably be contacting you soon to sign off on the schedule, so that you know who is with you at all times.”

Laura keeps ignoring him, staring out the door at her car where her brother is waiting for her. Jordan sighs softly. He doesn’t begrudge her. She is probably feeling very betrayed by the town turning on her brother when it appears he has done nothing wrong. He wonders if someone has a particular agenda against the Hales. To target the boy is cruel and awful.

Out of the corner of Jordan’s eye, he sees the old man bite into a jelly donut, red smearing over his lips like blood. It makes his grandfatherly demeanor seem an act. He notices Jordan watching him and smiles, licking the jelly off. It does not restore his previous persona.

“Fine,” Laura finally snaps, and Jordan turns his attention back to her. “Now, if you don’t mind.” She slaps the door open and stomps out, Cora trotting after her, still joined by their hands. Neither of them looks back.

Jordan watches them drive away before heading for the old man. He holds up his hands, smiles winningly, and slips out the door ahead of Jordan.

The icky feeling the man inspired lasts until Jordan is back at the station, staring down the Sheriff as he balances the box of sweet rolls while deputies swarm him.

The Sheriff darts in and grabs the largest tart, the one Jordan had secretly been eyeing. “Report.”

“Sir, permission to start the protective detail today instead of tomorrow?”

“Permission denied. The City Council’s special meeting granting the funds is tomorrow. As of right now, we have no budget to allocate for it. We can’t use resources we can’t afford without reasonable evidence.” The Sheriff glares at what is left of the tart, licking the powdered sugar from his lips. “Do you have any evidence for why we should start now?”

“Both Argent and Hale are out on bail now,” Graeme pipes up. “Hell, that should be reason enough.”

The Sheriff looks mad as he says, “But is there any evidence, any indication, that the Hale children are in danger? Anything at all?”

No one answers. Jordan frowns down at the lone éclair amidst a sea of other donuts left in his box. He sets the box down on the nearest desk and breaks the sweet roll in half, surprised to see jelly inside instead of the usual Bavarian cream filling.

He remembers the way the old man looked, with his beady eyes and his false smile. ‘My grandfather,’ the dark haired clerk had said. An Argent?

His fingers go numb and he drops the éclair back into the box.

“What about Mr. Argent—the one who paid Kate Argent’s bail? What do we know about him?” Specifically, Jordan thinks, what does he look like?

“Gerard Argent, seventy-two, five-foot-eleven. In remission from stage II prostate cancer. Listed as currently residing in Idaho.” Kincaid swivels his screen so the room can see the information. “Right now, he has two unpaid parking tickets. Both issued after his arrival earlier today.”

“Which tickets?” the Sheriff demands. “Who wrote them? _Where_ were they written?” he stops suddenly, blinking down at the remnants of the tart he still holds. “Stop,” he says, when Kincaid opens his mouth to answer him. “Unless you have proof that Gerard Argent is going to skip out on paying those tickets, do not pursue him. I don’t care if you think he is a viable suspect. We do not have the resources to investigate him further. Yet.”

He plucks another sweet roll from the box, a cinnamon roll thick with frosting. Then, he goes to his office and pointedly shuts the door.

“Speeding and parking,” Kincaid says and turns his monitor back around. Jordan leans over his shoulder to read the report more closely. Deputy Haigh wrote both tickets this morning at the courthouse where the arraignment hearings were held.

“Help you, Parrish?” Kincaid asks, and Jordan mumbles a negative, heading for the men’s room to wash the stickiness left from the éclair off his hands. He needs to talk to Haigh about Argent, since he can’t go protect those kids. His gut flips uncomfortably at the idea that he is leaving them vulnerable to attack.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up when he is thrown in the back of a vehicle. Cora lands on top of him, jarring both his head and his ankle. He swallows his grunts of pain and work on shifting his body so that he can somewhat protect his sister.

His hands and feet are tied, which makes it hard to get to his knees. His ankle throbs when he puts too much weight on it, and he pants through both the pain and the exertion, taking stock of where they are.

While he maneuvers, the vehicle vibrates, engine roaring as the driver stomps on the accelerator and the floor shifts wildly as they bump over an uneven surface. Derek rolls with it, shoulder slamming against the floor hard. As soon as the vehicle levels, he scrambles upright again, peering around at their surroundings.

They are in a windowless tube, possibly a van. A metal grate that separates the cab from the back, and through it, Derek can see at least two figures: a driver and a passenger. It is hard to see, but Derek doesn’t think either of them are wearing masks. A quick glance at Cora reveals that she too isn’t wearing a blindfold. Oh, God, they’re going to die!

He lets himself fall back to the floor next to Cora so he can curl around her. She is still unconscious, and he wonders if they smashed her in the head like him or used chemicals. He twists around until he can run his bound hands over her head as gently as he can, considering the van is shuddering again and making it hard to reach her behind his back.

Derek doesn’t find any bumps or knots but his relief is short lived as the van starts slowing. He struggles back to his knees. He is not going down without a fight. That is for sure. Even if he can’t do anything except bite them. He isn’t entirely defenseless.

Except, when they finally stop and the driver makes his way out of the van and around the back, feet crunching loudly on what must be gravel, he doesn’t give Derek an opening. He simply opens the door and throws in a canister already spewing thick smoke before slamming the door shut again.

A few moments pass as Derek tries to hold his breath, hoping to outlast the smoke. But, he has never been good at that, often losing friendly battles to Lahey, Boyd, and Reyes at the lunch table. His lungs spasm and he gulps in a good bit of the smoke. It is sweet on his tongue, like a packet of sugar crystals or a spoonful of honey.

He collapses, staring blankly at the still-smoking-but-slowing-down canister. He does not pass out, even breathing almost normally, but his body is limp and useless, and he cannot do anything when the driver opens the door again, pulling him out and leaning him against the rear tire.

Then, he goes in for Cora. Derek grunts, trying to move. He wants to cry in frustration at the way his hands and legs flop stupidly.

“Don’t worry, boy,” the passenger says. It is that penis of a man that kicked him in the head. Derek growls at him. “You’ll get some soon enough.”

Some _what_ , Derek wants to ask, if his tongue weren’t as useless as the rest of his body.

The men disappear from view, the driver carrying Cora over his shoulder while the passenger follows him. All Derek can do is wait for one of them to come back. He hopes his body starts cooperating before that happens.

He wriggles the toes of his good foot, worried when he can’t feel them. He can’t even feel his injured ankle despite the recent abuse it has suffered.

Distracted, he doesn’t realize the driver has returned until he is yanked upright with enough force that his feet leave the ground. He winces when he lands, ankle buckling, but he still doesn’t feel it, and he is grateful that he can’t.

His legs don’t support him, so the driver hauls him over his shoulder, like he did with Cora. The trip is quick, their destination, an enclosed warehouse, only a few short yards from where the van is parked.

Derek is set next to Cora on a thin pallet in the center of a large room. Aside from a folding card table and two chairs and the mat, the room is empty. A set of floodlights on the wall illuminates where he and Cora lay, but the rest of the area is dark.

Cora is awake, blinking back tears as she examines him with wide, frightened eyes. He wants to offer her comfort, but he can’t, doesn’t want to lie to her.

“They’re going to kill us, aren’t they?” she whispers. Derek tries to scoff, tell her that she watches too many television shows, but he knows she is right. These men took them for a reason, and since they have made no attempt to disguise themselves, it is only reasonable to assume that whatever they plan to do will end with their deaths.

Cora sobs when he doesn’t respond. His limbs are still uncooperative when he tries to move to offer her comfort. She can’t move either, he surmises, since she hasn’t moved yet herself.

“Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” the passenger asks, materializing from the darkness to grin down at them. He is older, maybe late sixties, early seventies, Derek thinks, with a bare crown ringed with sparse, dirty-white hair. He reminds Derek of a grandfather, if the grandfather had sharp teeth and bloodstained fingernails. Not that this man has either, but there is something unsettling about him. It might be his eyes, beady, sharp, observing, or it might be his smile, wide, hard, mean.

Whatever it is, it sends a shiver running down Derek’s spine to hear the man’s voice, honeyed consonants and poisoned vowels.

“Two children intent on protecting each other.” The man claps his hands. “Such a lovely sight. Is it not?” The driver only grunts, but the man continues as if he had truly responded. “Of course, they’re close. Two siblings forced to protect each other from the systematic abuse of their parents.”

“What do you want?” Derek demands. He knows Mom and Dad won’t pay ransom. Not after he and Cora left with Laura. Not after he got them arrested.

“What do I want?” the man repeats. “‘What do you want,’ he asks!” The laugh that he throws his head back to let out is frightening. Equal parts promised violence and insanity. It makes Derek’s heart skip wildly. Beside him, Cora trembles so hard he can feel it. The man sobers quickly, staring down at them with hooded eyes.

“I want retribution for the wrong you’ve done my daughter.”

“Kate,” Derek murmurs, fear clenching tight in his stomach. The man nods.

“You need to retract your statement accusing her of raping you. We all know you’re just an oversexed teenager who bragged to the wrong ear.”

“Derek didn’t tell anyone,” Cora says. Her voice is strained but still strong.

Derek remembers the exam with Mrs. McCall, remembers the way Laura had promised Kate wouldn’t hurt him anymore after he broke down begging. He doesn’t correct Cora, but Kate’s father glares at him anyway.

“I’m sure you remember, Derek Hale,” he spits, “screaming my daughter’s name when you were asked with whom you were having sex.”

“Derek—” Cora starts but shuts her mouth when Derek nudges her with his shoulder. He tries not to appear excited at the fact that he can move again. On the other hand, he can definitely feel his ankle throbbing with his heartbeat.

“I only told on Kate accidently,” he says to Kate’s father. Mr. Argent’s face darkens, and Derek hurries to add, “I was being examined because there was blood in my underwear. When the nurse discovered fresh blood, she checked the source and triggered a response. That is when I said Kate’s name.”

“Now, see,” Mr. Argent wags a finger, smiling coldly at them, “that’s where I know you’re lying.” He moves forward suddenly, and they both flinch. “My daughter-in-law works as a nurse there. She was passing by your exam room when you clearly stated you were having sex with my daughter.”

“You’re deranged,” Derek breathes. He wriggles the toes of his good foot, confidant that he can move well enough to fight Mr. Argent. That just leaves the driver, who has done nothing but grunt occasionally, as if bored by the proceedings.

“Just admit you lied about my daughter raping you!” Mr. Argent yells, slamming his hand onto the mat next to Derek’s face. Cora lets out a little shriek. Mr. Argent glares at her, While he is distracted, Derek brings his knee up, ramming directly into Mr. Argent’s groin.

The old man howls in pain and drops his full weight onto Derek. The movement jars his ankle again, and he lets out his own cry of pain. Despite the agony his foot is in, Derek starts rolling back and forth, trying to dislodge the old man.

The driver appears on the other side of the mat, a gun pointed at Cora. Derek freezes.

“Well played, boy,” Mr. Argent wheezes. He climbs off Derek and straightens his clothes. Then, he turns to the driver and says, “Rape the girl. Kill her when you are done.”

“And the boy?” The driver’s voice is unaffected. He might as well be asking how Mr. Argent would prefer his steak.

Mr. Argent shrugs. “If you want to rape him too, go ahead. But, don’t kill him. I want Kate to have a shot at him.” Mr. Argent leaves, footsteps echoing as he marches away. He slams a door, and the sudden silence makes Derek and Cora’s panting more obvious.

The driver walks to the table with soft, measured steps. He pulls out a chair and sits to begin cleaning his gun. He dismantles it efficiently, laying the pieces out.

Derek grabs Cora’s arm and they stand up. Cautiously, they back away from the man until they reach a wall.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man calls. His voice is accented, English, Derek thinks. He wonders how he came to be working with Mr. Argent and why he isn’t following the very specific instructions.

“Gerard is still outside. You won’t get far.”

“You’re not going to rape us?” Cora asks. Derek hisses at her, but she ignores him.

The man laughs. “I have no desire to harm children. I am only staying to ensure your safety.” He uses a cloth to wipe the barrel of the gun. “Now, it’s time, little girl, to scream. Scream as if the devil himself is chasing you. Boy, come here.”

Cora grips Derek’s hand tightly. “You want us to pretend you’re doing something to us?” Derek asks. “Why?”

“Do you want Gerard to come back in? Do you want him to bring his daughter here, for her to rape and kill you both? Or, would you rather play along and live? Simple choice, really.”

Derek nods to Cora before walking to where the man is oiling and wiping down different mechanics of the gun. He does not see any bullets anywhere in the mess of metal. He sits gingerly, stretching out his broken ankle to alleviate some of the pain, and lays his hands in his lap.

Cora lies down on the mat and starts wailing and thrashing wildly. It sets Derek on edge and he twists his hands together to keep from leaping to his feet and running to her aid.

“Do you know why Gerard is so set on getting you to retract your accusation of Kate?” Derek shakes his head. “Your other rapist, Uncle Peter, has also accused Kate of raping him. Gerard got Peter to agree to withdraw his accusation against Kate if Gerard can get you to withdraw yours.”

“And you don’t want me to do that?”

The gun is whole again, and the man tucks it back into his jacket. He sighs before saying to Cora, “Whimper, dear. I’ve penetrated you now.” Cora obediently switches the sound she is making.

Derek blanches, remembering a dinner not long ago where Peter had fucked him because Kate wasn’t available. He had spent the night in discomfort, shifting in his seat and stifling whimpers, like Cora is now. He glances at her, looking away quickly when he finds her staring back at him, a knowing look on her face.

“Derek,” the man says, drawing his attention back to him, “you can’t let them get away with this. They will never stop if you don’t make them yourself. I will be here to help you.” He reaches into his jacket and Derek flinches away, expecting the gun, even if it is unloaded. Instead, he gets a gray card with raised red lettering. Derek traces a thumb over the words ‘Deucalion, Inc.’ and a phone number.

“I’m going to take you back to your sister’s apartment now. I want you to call me if you even think you see an Argent again. Understood?”

Derek sits numbly, holding the card and still feeling the letters. He turns his face to the man, Deucalion, and asks, “Why should I trust you? You’re working with Kate’s dad.”

“Because, Derek,” Deucalion answers, “I’m the only reason you and your sisters are still alive.”

~ * ~

Haigh swears when he sees Jordan coming.

“What?” Jordan says with feigned innocence. He leans against Haigh’s patrol car and eyes the building Haigh’s been surveying. “You know, you really ought to let them know their window can be viewed from back here.”

“Shut up, Parrish,” Haigh mutters. Jordan grins and steps forward to scoop up a handful of pebbles. He chucks them at the window, waving when one of the girls, local community college students, all of them, pokes her head out to see what the noise is.

Haigh sighs dramatically when she gasps in outrage, flips both of them off, and pulls the curtains closed. “Way to ruin a free show, Parrish,” he grumbles.

Jordan shakes his head, already making a note to report Haigh to the Sheriff. Haigh and he used to be partners when he first started in Beacon Hills. But, it’s stunts like this that made them unable to remain partners.

Jordan takes every opportunity to seek Haigh out and ‘piss in his cheerios,’ as Deputy Graeme likes to say.

“You’re welcome,” he says, just to see Haigh’s face go red.

“Why are you here? Aside from deterring any fun to be had in this godforsaken shithole of a town.”

“You remember ticketing someone this morning?”

Haigh nods. “You mean that entitled sonofabitch Argent. You know, he has an open investigation against him. FBI. Fed’s wanna pin some fucked up shit on him.”

“Yeah?” Jordan keeps his tone causal. “You know what?” He wonders why Kincaid didn’t mention this. Hell, why wasn’t it the first thing out of his mouth? The twisting, sick feeling from earlier comes back tenfold.

“Human trafficking,” Haigh says, “with a side of some very illegal drugs. He’s only here to support his daughter, he says, when I wrote the first ticket. Why were you speeding, I ask. He says, kid you not, I didn’t see a posted speed limit. Fucker passed one right before I flipped my lights on to pull him over.” Haigh keeps talking, his story getting more detailed, but Jordan stops listening. Haigh likes the sound of his own voice a bit much

He pulls out his phone and dials the Sheriff’s number.

“Stilinski,” the man barks. Must have interrupted something—or he has realized that Jordan isn’t where he is supposed to be right now.

“Sir,” he says, and Stilinski snorts. Jordan winces and plows on. “I’ve spoken with Deputy Haigh, and he has told me some very interesting news.”

“Save it,” Stilinski says, sounding less like the angry sergeant and more like a tired father. “Get your ass back to the station now. You’ll be lucky if all I do is discipline you. God, Parrish, you ignored a direct order.”

An apology is on the tip of Jordan’s tongue, but Stilinski did say to save it. Instead, he says, “Right away, sir.”

The phone goes silent, and Jordan sighs. Haigh studies him with an almost smug-looking smile.

Great. It is going to be all over the station before he even gets in. Jordan sighs again, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. His patrol car is still cool from the air when he slides behind the wheel, as if even the vehicle knows the shitstorm he has gotten himself into and wants to offer a brief respite from the swelter of the day.

Before he can turn the key in the ignition, his phone buzzes, and he fumbles it up to his ear. “Parrish,” he says—not barks.

“Deputy Parrish, this is Alyssa Halvershiem.”

Jordan remembers the altercation, if it could be called such, that he responded to at the woman’s ice cream shop.

“Mrs. Halvershiem, how are you?” He likes the ice cream parlor owner. She has always been kind to him. The fact that she is standing with the Hale children, especially Derek, has only increased his affinity toward her.

“Actually, I’m not feeling well,” Mrs. Halvershiem says. “See, my husband and I came up with this new flavor of ice cream, and we decided we needed taste testers, and who better than the children just down the street from us.”

“The Hales,” he murmurs to himself.

Mrs. Halvershiem continues, “Lo and behold, when I arrived at Laura Hale’s apartment, I found the door kicked in, and a smear of blood just inside. Any and all communications regarding yelling for the children has remained unanswered.”

That sick feeling returns with vengeance, and Jordan almost drops the phone because he starts shaking. “You’re reporting the scene of a kidnapping,” he breathes.

“Yes, Deputy Parrish, I am.”

“Shit.”

“Yes indeed.”

“Have you called the Sheriff yet? Dispatch—uh, 9-1-1? I’m on my way right now.”

“I’m calling Laura Hale and no one else,” Mrs. Halvershiem says. “I will not be responsible for any leaks in your department leading to further harm of those children.”

As frustrating as both the inconvenience of not having backup is and the blatant accusation that their department is faulty, Jordan understands why she is wary of increasing the number of people that know about this. He can call the Sheriff himself anyway, he reasons. And, there is always Haigh for backup, which, Jordan supposes, is better than nothing.

“Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Halvershiem. Stay safe.”

Silence answers him. Great, she hung up on him too. He dials the Sheriff again. He also opens his door and waves at Haigh to come to him.

“You have five minutes to get here,” Stilinski says.

“Actually, sir,” Jordan interrupts, “I’m heading to a crime scene. Laura Hale’s apartment, an eye witness claims the door has been forced open with visible blood, and neither of the younger Hales is responding to verbal inquiries.”

Haigh hightails it to his car, flipping on his lights but leaving off his siren.

“Fuck!” Stilinski spits. “Shit. Okay. I’m on my way with Graeme and Kincaid. Don’t touch anything until we get there. Understood?” Jordan grunts affirmatively. “And Deputy?”

“Sir?” Jordan cranks the key, pumping the brake so he can shift gears. He also turns on his lights.

“Be careful,” the Sheriff says. “The assailant could still be on the premises.”

“I’m always careful, sir.” Jordan punches his phone off, dropping it into the passenger seat. He flips on his lights and sirens and floors it. He notices Haigh following him.

~ * ~

John pulls up to the Court Street Apartments, making note of at least two other patrol cars on the scene already, and a silver Pathfinder, looking as out of place as a basket of mums at the midsummer fair.

He jots down the license plate and then heads up the wrought iron steps to Apartment 306. He imagines Derek Hale crutching up and down these stairs and winces. He decides he will send someone to carry the boy when he needs to move from one level to another—if they find him.

Deputies Haigh and Parrish stand in front of the door to 306. Parrish snaps pictures with the high resolution camera the department received through their grant last year. Haigh leans against the banister and appears to be shooting the breeze with Parrish while Parrish works.

“Haigh,” John snaps, and the deputy straightens. “Go canvass the neighbors. See if anyone saw or heard anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Haigh lopes off, thumping down the stairs.

“Apartments 305 through 301 belong to young, working couples, much like Laura Hale and Deputy Votsky,” Parrish explains. “No one is home now, so Haigh was waiting to see if someone would show up who had maybe been here during the abduction.”

“Are we sure it was an abduction and not another runaway?”

Parrish points at a patch of floor barely visible behind the opened door. It discolored, dried almost black in the shadow.

“Blood?” John asks.

“Certainly looks like it,” Parrish agrees. “I haven’t touched anything, like you said, but it’s obvious the door was forced in.” He points at the damage done to the frame, the cracked jamb and splintering around the locking mechanism.

He also shows John some hair, dark, caught on the edge of the door.

“It’s too high up to be Cora’s,” John observes.

“Yeah, but it’s the right height and coloring for Derek. The strands are short, like Derek’s hair.”

“Who was the witness who called it in?”

“Alyssa Halvershiem.” Parrish jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate a woman sitting on the bench in front of the apartments. John wonders how he missed seeing her at first. “She was going to call Laura but I think I got her talked into waiting for you, sir.”

“Jesus,” John mutters under his breath, scrubbing at his eyes. “I’d better go talk to her and call Laura myself.”

“Yes, sir.” Parrish glances around and then fixes John with an assessing look. “Thought you said Graeme and Kincaid were coming along, sir.”

“Crash on Sadler Street, Parrish. All other deputies are attending. It’s going to be a long one. I’d rather not have to suspend you or Haigh so keep working here. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Halvershiem. You let me know if you find anything pointing to who took them or where they might have gone.”

“Yes, sir. Permission to enter the premises?”

“Granted.”

John waits until Parrish is inside, the building cleared and camera clicking away steadily as he picks his way through the mostly spotless apartment, before he heads down the stairs and approaches where Alyssa is sitting.

She looks up from her phone, one of those new fangled touch screens that can do everything, when he drops into the seat next to her.

“Your Pathfinder?” he asks and she nods. “Why didn’t you call 9-1-1? Why call Deputy Parrish instead?”

“I told him, I don’t want to be responsible for information getting into the wrong hands.”

“There is no leak in the department,” John says. He recalls Graeme’s suggestion that it’s people with emergency scanners that are spreading the news all over town.

“I’d rather not risk it,” Alyssa says. “I don’t want to hurt those kids any more than they’ve already been.”

John nods. He remembers Luana, a young lady who had passed away shortly after a traumatic event like what Derek has gone through. He had been the responding officer to the scene of her death. Sometimes he still sees her hanging in the corner of his peripheral vision, thinks if he turns fast enough he’ll see her blue face and staring eyes again.

He hopes he won’t ever have to respond to a scene like that again. Especially one for Derek.

“Can you walk me through your discovery?” he asks. “Why were you at Laura Hale’s apartment? What did you see? What did you notice?”

“I told your deputy, Parrish, I made a new flavor of ice cream and I wanted an opinion on it. I decided Cora Hale would work best as a taste tester. Only when I got here, I found the door opened and a pool of blood just inside.” She grabs John’s arm and squeezes. “I also saw Derek’s crutches against the wall. Wherever they went, that boy did not go under his own power.”

“You haven’t called Laura yet, have you?”

“No,” Alyssa says, “but I’m about to.”

“Let me. It’s my job anyway.”

Alyssa shrugs and goes back to poking at her phone. John stands up and steps away, tugging his own flip-phone from his back pocket.

He still has Laura’s number programmed into his contact list from when Derek was getting his kit. He pulls it up and dials it, waiting with it pressed against his ear. She isn’t answering. He tries again. And again.

And again.

~ * ~

Emilio throws his hands up and shouts in frustration as the doors to the bar burst open again in the middle of class.

Laura sighs inwardly, almost as frustrated as her boss, before she catches sight of who came in. Cora and Derek, leaning heavily on her, step around the frozen couples. Laura meets them halfway and takes Derek’s weight. Cora hugs her tightly. They both look rumpled, and there is blood on Derek’s temple. He grins weakly, mumbling something unintelligible into her shoulder.

Her phone, tucked into her sports bra this time instead of the duffle, vibrates against her skin. She digs it out only to see an unfamiliar number on the screen. She answers it anyway, hoping whoever is on the other end of the line will explain why her siblings are here and what happened to them.

“Hello?” she says, cautiously. Derek presses tighter against her, face smushed into her shoulder while Cora hangs off her other side.

“Hello, yes, Laura?” a man, familiar voice, says, tone falsely calm. “I need you to come back to your apartment as soon as possible.”

“Who is this?”

There is a short pause, and then the man says, “Shit! This is Sheriff Stilinski. How soon can you make it back?”

“That depends on if my siblings can let go of me long enough for me to drive.”

The pause this time is longer, but in the background, Laura can hear someone, probably Sheriff Stilinski, yelling for someone.

“Are you at my apartment tight now?” she asks, fingers reaching out to touch Derek’s wound. He flinches but does not otherwise move. She reaches over to Cora and runs her fingers through her hair. Cora tucks her face into her side and sighs softly.

“How are they?” Sheriff Stilinski comes back on the line, voice strained with…relief? “Are either of them injured? Do they know who took them and where they were held?”

For a moment, Laura cannot breathe. It sounds like Sheriff Stilinski is asking about a kidnapping.

“You were kidnapped?!” Laura demands, shrilly, finding her breath and voice suddenly. Cora nods against her side while Derek pulls away enough to face her.

“It was Gerard Argent,” he says, calmly. Calmly! Laura stares at him in horror.

“He had a partner that wasn’t helping him,” Cora adds.

“Deucalion, Inc,” Derek jumps in, producing a gray card with that name on it from a pocket.

“They drove us to a warehouse. That wrinkled penis of a man ordered Deucalion to rape us and kill me.”

Laura wavers on her feet. “I think I’m going to faint,” she says, weakly, barely aware that her numb fingers can’t hold onto her phone, and it clatters uselessly to the floor.

“Don’t faint,” Derek says. “We still have to go home and I don’t know how to drive yet.”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?” Cora says sharply. Derek shrugs.

Laura doesn’t hear anything else, the blood rushing through her ears loud enough to drown out everything. Then, she faints.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter overlaps a bit with the previous one. Sorry if that becomes confusing.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	13. Twelve

~ * ~

Mrs. McCall walks into the room and promptly bursts into tears. Cora stares at her for a long moment before nudging Derek.

“What’s wrong with her?” she asks behind her hand. Derek shrugs, flipping a page of the magazine he stole from the waiting room.

“I think she’s just overwhelmed,” he says. “I mean, this is the third time she’s seen me in four days, you’re here too, and so is Laura.”

“Or, it’s because you nearly died,” Mrs. McCall says.

“How do you know?” Cora demands. “You weren’t there.”

On the exam bed, Laura lifts the folded cloth off her eyes to glare at her. “Be nice to Nurse McCall. She had to deal with Derek twice.”

“And you,” Cora mutters. Derek stifles his laugh with a cough and readjusts the magazine to hide his smile from Laura.

Laura has been insufferable since she came to and realized neither Derek nor Cora had caught her before she hit the floor. At least it had freaked out her boss enough that he spoke perfect English when he told her she had the next week off.

“I heard that!” Laura snaps. Derek licks a finger that he then uses to flip another page. Both Laura and Cora stare at him in horror.

“That’s right,” he says, smugly. “Keep sniping at each other and I’ll increase my odds of contracting methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus.”

“Ew,” Cora says. “You’re so gross.” He pretends to lick his finger again and she shudders. “Fine. I’ll stop messing with Laura.”

“Good.” Derek looks pleased, and it jolts Cora to realize she doesn’t know the last time he truly was happy. She grew up with a sad and dejected Derek who never left her alone with Peter if he could help it, and one whose smile was never real.

“I’m going to wash my hands now,” Derek announces. “Promise me I won’t come back to find either of you more battered than you are now?”

“Hell no,” Laura says. “But, swing by the caf and get me some cheesecake, why don’t you? There’s a twenty in my purse.”

“For how much they charge?” Derek says mildly. “Hell no.” He digs the money out anyway, using his uncontaminated hand and setting the purse onto his chair.

“Go wash your hands and then come right back here,” Mrs. McCall says. “Your head wound still needs to be examined.”

“Hey, I never fainted,” Derek says, the door slamming behind him before Laura can do more than shout, “Hey!” at him.

Mrs. McCall helps Laura sit up. “I’m going to test your reflexes now, starting with your eyes.” She produces an ophthalmoscope, and Cora leaps from her seat.

“Can I watch?” she asks, trying not to appear so eager. It’s just. She built one of those last year. A poor one, but she’d still won the camp’s top award.

Mrs. McCall looks conflicted before shaking her head.

“Oh, let her,” Laura says. “Someday she’s going to be either a great inventor or a doctor. That’s why she goes to all those science camps. That’s why she _is_ still going to camp tomorrow afternoon.”

Cora freezes. “I still get to go?” She can barely breathe. Laura is going to let her out of sight for a week after she was just kidnapped?

Mrs. McCall must be having similar thoughts because her face goes pinched and she asks, “Are you sure?”

“No,” Laura answers, “but, it’s important to Cora and her future. Besides, she’s going to have a protective detail with her.”

Mrs. McCall’s face eases a bit and she lets Cora peer through the eyepiece as she examines Laura’s eyes. Then she switches to the otoscope and checks Laura’s ears and throat.

“Your pupils are responding appropriately,” Mrs. McCall says. “And everything else seems to be in perfect working order.” Cora beams at Laura, who snorts. “Dr. Geyer will be in shortly to give you a clean bill of health and then we’ll work on getting you discharged.”

The door opens and Derek crutches in, a plastic bag swinging in his hand. Cora is confused. He definitely did not have his crutches when he left. Derek does not look around as he moves Laura’s purse so he can sit down again and unknot the handles of the bag.

“You were supposed to just wash your hands,” Mrs. McCall chastises him. She raises an eyebrow when he digs into the bag and offers her a small box of thumbprint cookies. “No bribes,” she says, fondly, accepting it. She waves at all of them before leaving the room, taking care to shut the door gently behind her.

Laura gestures wildly suddenly, and Derek sighs. He shoves the bag at Cora. “There’s a slice of chocolate silk pie for you if you give Laura her cheesecake.”

A few moments later, while Cora and Laura use flimsy plastic forks to wolf down their sweets, someone knocks on the door. Two seconds later, it is pushed open, and a short, bald man with a thin mustache steps into the room.

He eyes the bulging cheeks and shrugs. “Hello, Hales. I am Dr. Geyer. I believe Nurse McCall told you I would be stopping by?”

“Discharge!” Laura blurts, and then immediately looks ashamed at herself. She takes another, smaller bite of her cheesecake.

Cora sets aside her mostly-eaten treat. “Are you going to look at her eyes again?” she asks. “Mrs. McCall said they were responding properly.”

“I sure am,” Dr. Geyer says and whips out his ophthalmoscope. He instructs Laura on where to look while Cora tries not to pout, disappointed that he didn’t even ask her if she wanted to see too.

Derek nudges her when she slumps into her seat again. “I’ll let you play doctor on me when we go home,” he promises, twining their pinky fingers together. Cora perks up at that. She still has her homemade examiner, and Derek is usually a model patient.

“Ah, Derek,” Dr. Geyer throws over his shoulder, “you’ll need another scan to make sure your ankle isn’t any more injured, and if it is, you’ll possibly need a new cast. Also more crutches.”

Derek points at the crutches he brought back with him. “The Sheriff’s Department retrieved them from the apartment,” he says, snappish, Cora thinks. “I didn’t lose them.”

“Very Well.” Dr. Geyer puts away his ophthalmoscope and holds up his stethoscope. Laura rolls her eyes but lets him listen to her lungs. He nods, smiling. “Well, you certainly sound and look healthy. No lasting damage from your fall.”

“No thanks to either of you,” Laura nods at Cora and Derek. They grin back at her.

“The fainting can be attributed to shock. I’ll send in a nurse with the final paperwork.” He claps his hands loudly, and Cora feels Derek jerk in place next to her. Loud noises startle him, she guesses. “Now, Derek,” Dr. Geyer continues, oblivious, “if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you ready for your scan.” Dr. Geyer sweeps from the room, white coat flapping behind him as he sprints away.

“I feel overwhelmed,” Derek admits quietly. Cora wants to snort at that—don’t they all?—but she stops at the vulnerable look on his face. His eyes are wet, like he is going to start crying any moment now.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Laura says. She hops off the exam bed and kneels next to Derek’s chair so that she can pat at the armrest by his clenched fingers. “You already had a scan, you know what to expect. And we’re not leaving until you are discharged too. It will be okay.”

“You could always kick the tech and run away,” Cora interjects. “That seems to work so well for you.” Shocked at herself, at how mean those words are, Cora slaps a hand over her mouth and stares wide-eyed at her brother. Laura glares at her, but Derek won’t meet her eyes and he sniffles unhappily.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“You’re right, though,” Derek says. “I _do_ run away when things get uncomfortable for me. How are we supposed to be normal when you can’t even tell me off for fear of upsetting me?”

“Who says we have to be normal?” Laura asks. “Let’s just take it one minute at a time, and we’ll support each other as best we can.”

“Now you just sound like a pamphlet on mental health,” Cora accuses. Laura flushes guiltily.

“Maybe we should write our own,” Derek suggests. He mimes opening a brochure to read intently, announcing, “In order to be an adequate Hale, one must take each day one minute at a time and support other Hale offspring.” They all giggle a bit at it, but Cora files the idea away in her mental experiment list. It might be helpful to have a guide on how to deal with Hales after all.

Mrs. McCall pokes her head back into the room at that moment and points at Derek. “You, Radiology. Now.” She disappears just as quickly. Derek shrugs and grabs his crutches, letting Laura pull him up and into a hug. Cora holds her arms out, realizing that this is the first time she is asking instead of taking a hug from him.

“I love you both,” Derek says as he crutches to the door. “So, so fucking much.” Cora pretends that doesn’t make her tear up at all. Laura doesn’t pretend at all, just sinks into Derek’s vacated chair and covers her face with her hands.

Another nurse, one Cora doesn’t recognize, steps in and holds out a sheaf of papers for Laura to take. “Your discharge?” she says timidly.

“Thank you,” Laura says, taking the papers. She scans the papers before signing them quickly and passing them back to the nurse.

Then, she and Cora go to find an unobtrusive corner of the waiting room to hide out in until Derek is ready to leave.

~ * ~

The scan goes fine—well, aside from the radiologist tsking and Dr. Geyer staring wide-eyed at the screen. Derek rolls his shoulders. He will live. He’s lived so far.

He purposefully doesn’t listen when they start talking about possible surgeries as they refit him with another air cast, green this time. He won’t be able to afford any of it, so why bother?

Dr. Morrell swings by to talk to him, and he finds that her earlier diagnosis of anxiety disorder is correct, as he feels particularly anxious when Dr. Geyer waltzes off with his crutches in hand.

Stuck here for the moment, he takes the opportunity to ask after his blood test.

“Excuse me?” she says, and he frowns puzzled.

“The redhead nurse? At your clinic?” he prompts. She looks confused. “She did a blood draw. For a test. I was wondering what the results were?”

“Derek,” Dr. Morrell says, her tone dipping down into icy, “we don’t do blood draws at clinics. All your blood-work would be completed at Beacon Hills Memorial and the results faxed to us if there was concern.” She pauses, eyeing him warily. “Are you telling me that the intake nurse working when you came to talk to me did a blood draw on you?”

He nods. She frowns, lost in thought it appears. Distracted, Dr. Morrell heads for the door. She stops with a hand on the knob, turning back to stare at him. “I think you should speak with Dr. Deaton about the event that happened today,” she says. “Take Cora with you.”

The door shuts gently behind her. Derek blinks, wondering if he should be worried. Maybe he should have mentioned the blood draw sooner? It hadn’t seemed such a big thing earlier. Annoying, yes, especially when the nurse wouldn’t explain, but not overly malicious.

He is glad when Nurse Lacey, a buxom blonde with a kind smile and sparkling brown eyes, sprints into the room pushing a wheelchair in front of her.

“Ready to blow this joint?” she asks with a wink. He frowns at her and wiggles his bad foot. She wags her finger at him and then helps him into the seat, covering his lap with a folded blanket. “Unfortunately, I’ve been given a speed limit, so we can’t see how fast this baby can go, but, if you like, I know a little place we can detour through.”

“Only for ice cream,” he grumbles, pretending to frown at her. It’s a routine they started at the free clinic. She was usually passing through on her way to somewhere more important but she would always stop and chat with him a bit before his appointments if she saw him in the waiting room. He’s not entirely certain that is isn’t because he mows her parents’ yard on Wednesdays.

“No ice cream, sorry,” she sings as she pushes him into the gift shop tucked behind the clinic’s double doors. She lets him pick out a small thing, and he chooses a tiny pink plastic vase with an oversized fake rose sticking out of it. Nurse Lacey pays and then wheels him past a disapproving Dr. Geyer and Mrs. McCall.

“Discharge!” Mrs. McCall calls after them. Nurse Lacey waves a hand in acknowledgement as she starts running. They skid into the waiting room where Laura is handing another nurse a stack of papers while Cora stands on her head in the corner.

Cora rights herself quickly launches into Derek’s arms. He grunts when his foot is jostled, but he clings tight to her when she tries to pull back.

“All right there?” Nurse Lacey asks, and he nods, holding out the rose for her. She accepts it with a smile. “Okay, stay safe, love.” She heads back to her duties while Cora slides off his lap to walk beside him when Laura starts pushing them out into the parking lot.

Benjamin is waiting there with Laura’s car and Derek’s crutches. He’d wondered what Dr. Geyer had done with them. Cora tucks under his arm and helps him shuffle-hop to the backseat. Laura returns the wheelchair to the entrance and Benjamin throws the crutches into the trunk.

Laura fusses over his and Cora’s seatbelts for a moment, only climbing into her own seat when Benjamin clears his throat pointedly.

“It feels really late,” Derek remarks quietly once they are driving through the heart of town. They pass the bank with its electronic sign declaring it to be 7:30 at night. The sun won’t even fully set for another hour and a half.

“We’re staying at my parents’ tonight,” Benjamin says. He glances into the rearview mirror, but Derek knows he can’t see either of them. It’s likely just a reflex action.

“Do they have enough beds?” Cora asks, concerned. She’s spent the night there more frequently than Derek. Something about proving goodwill between the families. In all likelihood, she was probably sent to spy on Laura after her emancipation. Probably also because Laura and Benjamin started dating when she was a freshman in high school.

“They have a couple of air mattresses,” Benjamin says. “We’re all going to stay in the living room unless the bed is clear, and then either you or Derek can have it.”

Laura reaches over the center console into the backseat to grasp Cora’s hand. “It’s only for a night or two,” she says, comfortingly. “You like Ben’s parents.”

“I do,” Cora affirms. “But what if they believe the rumors about Derek? What do we do then?”

Derek pretends to stare at the passing scenery. They are almost already at the Votsky residence, the benefit of living in a moderately small town. He whispers, mostly to himself, “Dr. Morrell suggested I go see Dr. Deaton tomorrow.” He knows the short notice, not that he had much more himself, is annoying, but the way he caches both Benjamin and Laura stiffening out of the corner of his eye is worrisome.

“She didn’t say anything to me,” Laura says after a very pregnant pause. “Or about Cora needing to go.”

“Actually,” Derek begins, but Laura talks over him.

“Maybe she’s trying something with you?”

“Oh, my God!” Cora cries. “Just admit it’s about money! Don’t make him feel bad for needing help.”

“Actually,” Derek says again. “Dr. Morrell thinks it would be a good idea for Cora to start therapy too.” He knows they don’t have enough money for him to go to Dr. Deaton, and he knows since they can’t afford to send him, they can’t afford to send Cora. But, everyone is usually more willing to spend money on the eleven year old brainiac instead of the troublesome boy.

He wonders if he and Cora were still with their parents, would the money still be spent on them? He doesn’t think so. Mom’s all about her image, and it does not reflect well on her to have children who see therapists.

Cora growls, but Laura straightens, leaning as far into the back as her seatbelt will allow. “I think it’s a good idea too, but not tomorrow. We’ll be busy with police reports and getting Cora ready for camp. We won’t have time to see Dr. Deaton, and anyway, weren’t you going back on Monday?”

“It still feels like you’re trying to make him feel bad for seeking help,” Cora states. “I mean, what if this is the difference between getting him on the path to mentally healthy or finding him dead tomorrow night?”

Laura blanches. “Oh, God,” she says weakly. “Derek, do you feel—that way again?”

Derek glares at her, mad. He lets the anger wash over him, turning his tone biting when he says, “If I do, I’m not telling you.”

Laura blinks, eyes shiny.

They pull into the Votskys’ driveway. About fucking time. He moves to open his door, Cora mirroring him on the other side. Benjamin turns off the ignition and engages the power locks. “Derek, it’s not that we’re trying to deny you anything you need,” he says, “but it may be best to focus on the police report first.”

“You know what?” Derek asks, surreptitiously unlocking his door. He waits until both his sister and her boyfriend are looking at him. “Fuck you.” He shoves his door open and spills out onto the cement, hobbling to the trunk, unsurprised when it remains defiantly closed.

“Derek,” Laura says, hanging out of her door, “what’s wrong?”

“Give me my fucking crutches,” he says, slams his hand down on the trunk. “Give me them, and then leave me the fuck alone.”

The trunk pops up, and he grabs his crutches, heading for the sidewalk. At this point, he doesn’t even know where he is going to stay, but anywhere has to be better than here. He thought Laura cared about him, but instead, all she wants is whatever the fuck that weird posturing was for the Sheriff’s Department.

She was unconscious for about five minutes and then tied up being scanned and examined. What does she think he was doing then? He’s already spoken to the Sheriff about what Gerard Argent did. _He_ doesn’t need to submit another police report.

He stomps his good foot as he moves, aware that Cora is trailing after him. She catches up to him after a block and says, lowly, “Where are we going?”

Derek shakes his head. He half-turns so he can point with his crutch at Laura and Benjamin, who are both following them, walking slowly like this is an argument that they’re letting Derek win. It makes him madder and he swings around to start hop-walking as fast as he can.  Cora jogs to keep up with him. Behind them, he hears Laura and Benjamin’s pace increase.

They round the corner and come face to face with Benjamin’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Votsky. Derek and Cora freeze.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Votsky says in her thick Minnesota accent. She stands with a hip cocked, a paper bag of groceries settled on it. Her light brown shoulder length hair is loose, frizzy and wild-looking. Mad scientist-esque. Fitting since she teaches sixth grade at Beacon Hills Elementary. She grins at them both.

Cora smiles back at her while Derek sighs. “I’m mad at my sister and Benjamin,” he says. Already, he can feel the tension leaving his body. No matter how mad he is, it isn’t as bad as it was. The Votskys are good like that. He actually enjoyed spending time with them when his parents let him.

“Give me a few minutes to put away the perishables, eh? Then, I’ll give you a lift wherever you’re headed.”

“Alice,” Mr. Votsky, her balding, stooped husband says reproachfully as he cleans his rimless spectacles on his shirt. “Don’t encourage them to run away, not before they’ve had something to eat.” He replaces his glasses and picks up his own bag. “Might as well go play mediator,” he says, offering his arm to Cora. Happily, she takes it and they skip around the corner, heading back to the house. Mrs. Votsky and Derek follow more sedately.

Laura and Benjamin are back by the car, panting. Derek sticks his tongue out at them.

“Why do you always take their side, Mom?” Benjamin asks, but it sounds fond instead of irritated.

“Usually, it’s because you’ve done something thoughtless,” Mrs. Votsky says. “Derek, darling, be a dear and explain why you were escaping my perfectly manicured lawn? Tell me, was it the gnomes?”

 

“Gnomes?” Derek repeats incredulously. Mrs. Votsky points at the garden statutes as they pass them. He knows she collects them, and he sees a few new ones peeking out from the hyacinth stalks. He shakes his head. “Actually,” he says, feeling a little silly now, “it was because Laura and Benjamin refused to take me to a recommended psychiatrist appointment. They also don’t want Cora to go.”

Mrs. Votsky looks disappointed. “Derek, darling, I’ll take you. Just let me know the time and place. Cora, dear, you’ll come too. Then we’ll go for ice cream afterwards and head down to camp.”

“Mom,” Benjamin says, exasperation and tiredness making his tone sharp, “we need to file a report tomorrow. I know, they took Derek and Cora’s statements and collected evidence already, but there is more than that to an investigation. Our apartment is still a crime scene and there’s going to be regular patrols by the house.”

“Honey,” Mrs. Votsky says, “there’s twenty-four hours in a day. Plenty of time to finish the police reports. There is also plenty of time to take the kiddos to important appointments.”

Benjamin throws his hands up. “Fine,” he snaps. “Let me call Dr. Deaton and set up two appointments for tomorrow.” He stomps into the house, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Laura twirls the car keys on her finger. She doesn’t say anything. She just pulls out two duffle bags from the still-open trunk. She shuts it with a bang and follows Benjamin into the house.

“They’re worried about money,” Derek says. “I think.” He knows caring for two children is a burden neither Laura nor Benjamin signed up for.

“There are programs we can enroll you in,” Mr. Votsky says. Derek forgets that he works as an economic advisor. His job is deciding where best to send funds for local programs that support needy families.

Derek’s parents are major donors to these programs. It still baffles him that his parents punished his ‘foolish’ spending when that’s exactly what they do when they hand over checks worth thousands of dollars. All he was doing was buying six people five-dollar lunches every school day. He wasn’t even spending all of his allowance.

“What happens to all those programs since my parents were arrested?” Derek asks.

A worried frown creases Mr. Votsky’s face before he grins brightly. “Grants, my dear boy,” he chirps.

Derek sighs. Cora has already gone inside with Mrs. Votsky so he isn’t sure if anyone else will understand his disgust at Mr. Votsky’s cheerfulness. Derek’s mother is the one who writes grants for the town. Yes, there are probably others who could write grants too. But, aside from the Walshes, who only run the bike shop as a hobby, no one else can meet and match the funds to seek larger grants.

He wonders if Beacon Hills will realize the ramifications of arresting their most prominent citizens soon and if the Sheriff will be re-elected come next election.

Mr. Votsky opens the front door and lets Derek hop by. The Votskys’ house is tiny; one level, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a dining room-slash-living room combination.

After Benjamin and Laura moved out when she turned eighteen, his parents downsized the remaining furniture. There is no sofa—that’s at the apartment. Instead, the Votskys, to relax, sit in recliners chairs and watch nature documentaries.

The second bedroom, Benjamin’s and then Laura’s, has been converted into a science experiment room. It’s where Cora stays when she has overnights. Derek sleeps fitfully in a too-small sleeping bag set between the recliners.

As much as he likes the Votskys, he does not remember those days (and nights) fondly.

Now, all the furniture has been shoved against the walls, and lined up where the dining room table usually stands are three air mattresses.

“Just like camping,” Mr. Votsky says, winking at Derek and nudging him in the back. He grunts noncommittally and moves away. Once Mr. Votsky moves to help his wife in the kitchen, Derek shudders at the idea of camping. Yes, he has spent nights outside when he runs away, but that doesn’t mean he wants to do that here, or even be reminded of it.

Cora is nowhere to be found, so Derek peeks into the sci-fi room, as Mrs. Votsky calls it. His sister is holding court with Paul, Mrs. Votsky’s pogona vitticeps, more commonly known as a Central bearded dragon. If memory serves, it was Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall’s sixth grade class a couple years ago that gifted the reptile to Mrs. Votsky.

Derek leaves her to it and heads for the recliners where Laura and Benjamin are sitting, holding hands and staring at the unlit television. He wonders if there is something wrong, worried that he’s been too selfish lately. Derek knows why they can’t agree to help him more readily, and it hurts, but he thinks he shouldn’t be taking it out on them. There is nothing they can do to change the situation.

He realizes that he’s mad that they won’t help him the way he wants to be helped but that he never let them know how he needs them to be. He makes a split second decision, crutching up to them quickly before he can change his mind, he lays his crutches down, blushing when he notices both of them staring at him.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “For how I’ve been acting. I know this isn’t easy for either of you, and I know you only want what’s best for us.” He leans down to hug Laura, clinging to her even as his body jerks against her. God damn it, he’s stronger than this. He silently counts to thirty and then pulls away enough to press a dry kiss to her cheek.

She looks like she wants to cry.

Derek hugs Benjamin too, and he gets a one-armed hug in return.

“Mom’s right,” Benjamin says. “There is plenty of time to take both you and Cora to Dr. Deaton tomorrow. I already set up the appointment.”

“Mrs. Votsky is in the kitchen, why don’t you go see if she needs any help?” Laura suggests. Derek doesn’t point out that both the Votskys are in the kitchen. Instead, he picks up his crutches, grimacing at the pain they cause as they settle in his armpits. He shakes it off and heads to the kitchen, squeezing through the narrow doorway.

Mr. and Mrs. Votsky lean together over the island in the center of the room, molding ground beef into patties and placing them on a large platter.

“This whole town has gone absolutely bonkers,” Mrs. Votsky says. “Have you heard the things they are saying about Poor Derek?”

Mr. Votsky makes a sympathetic noise. “And they’re completely ignoring the fact that he’s a victim. I’m glad Mayor Calhoun is letting Beacon Valley house the trial. Although, I think she may let Redding have it. Beacon Valley only has that small courthouse leftover from the days of the circuit judges.”

“Redding would be better. They’ve heard of the Hales, but it would be a fairer trial.” Mrs. Votsky slaps her patty down forcefully and steps around her husband to scrub her hands in the sink. “Also, Mayor Calhoun is holding a special meeting tonight to remove Talia Hale from the Council.”

“Good. That woman.” Mr. Votsky shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything else.

“I do not even want to know what both sides are going to put that boy through. I wish they would all take pleas.” Mrs. Votsky keeps talking, but Derek has heard enough.

He turns away before either of them notices him and goes to sit on one of the mattresses, his crutches laid beside it.

It’s starting to feel real that Peter and Kate won’t get away with what they did to him. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t. He covers his face with his hands and lets the tears fall.

~ * ~

The FBI catches Gerard Argent boarding a flight back to Idaho in Redding. John is glad he gave them a heads up on the bastard. They—the G-men assigned to the case—drag Argent back to Beacon Hills where he is then arrested by the Sheriff for kidnapping charges.

Both Hale children, when spoken to, had referred to Argent as a ‘wrinkled penis of a man,’ and John agrees. Gerard Argent is a giant dick.

His ‘accomplice,’ an undercover agent with a side project to help endangered children, sticks around long enough to check in with both the Agent in Charge and John before heading out to Idaho to take down the rest of Argent’s operations.

Agent in Charge signs off on the paperwork for a transfer, to move Argent closer to a big city prison.

“Hang on,” John says when he catches wind of it, “I thought we agreed he would stand trial in Beacon Hills before he goes anywhere.”

Agent in Charge, Rafael McCall, grins smugly. “He waived his right to speedy trial. You’ll be lucky if he even stands trial at all. I mean, all you’ve got is the word of a ghost and a couple of already- traumatized kids. We have more on him than what those charges could get him.”

“Yes,” John says, frustrated, “but you wouldn’t have him if he hadn’t taken those kids. Hell, your ‘ghost’ admitted he didn’t have anything on him until he was called in to help with the abduction. He should stand trial here—it’ll give those kids closure.”

“Closure?” McCall snorts. “Those kids don’t need closure. They need a fucking brigade. You know, I’ve been here all of six hours and already I’ve overheard so many speculations about that family. Closure won’t mean a damn thing to them if they keep being dogged by those rumors.” He scowls suddenly. “I hope you are at least looking into some of those allegations against the boy.”

“Derek wouldn’t hurt Cora,” John says confidently. He glares for good measure. McCall may have lived in this town once, but it’s been years since he was last here. He hasn’t watched those kids break down and cling to each other. He hasn’t seen the cold indifference of their parents or the weaseling of their uncle. He hasn’t seen Cora bring Derek back from the brink of a panic attack, or seen how Cora is the only person, male or female, that Derek voluntarily, and at great length, will hug or touch.

There is no question in John’s mind: Derek Hale hasn’t molested his younger sister.

“How do you know?” McCall sneers.

“Because I’ve seen them interact. I’ve seen Cora able to curl against Derek’s side  without so much as a by-your-leave while Laura has to telegraph every move before Derek lets her close enough to hug. If Derek were abusing Cora, where’s her reluctance to be in the same room with him? Where’s her refusal to be touched?”

“You don’t know that’s how she’d react,” McCall insists.

“The Hale kids are all alike,” John replies. “I’ve seen pictures of Derek with his uncle—his primary abuser—and he always looks like he would rather be anywhere else.”

“And you _inferred_ ,” McCall stresses, “that Cora would react the same way as Derek. Tell me this,” he continues when John stays silent, “Scott and Stiles act similar, right? An outsider wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.”

John knows he’s thinking of the boys’ first grade teacher. She had never learned how to tell them apart despite the fact that their boys look nothing alike and that on Parents’ Night, Stiles was with Claudia and him while Scott was with his parents.

“What makes you think Cora and Derek would react the same when you know Scott and Stiles wouldn’t?”

“Because I’m not an outsider,” John says. “I watched that boy fight a panic attack for his sister. I watched that girl defend her brother from their parents. I have _seen_ how they interact with each other. Derek Hale is not molesting his sister.”

“Still, you shouldn’t dismiss what people are saying. It could be that they see something in Derek that you don’t.”

“Fine,” John says, “I won’t dismiss the ‘concerns’ about Derek.” McCall looks smug, as if he’s won the battle. John just thinks he’s kicking someone who is already down.

“We’re still taking Argent with us,” McCall says. “I’ll advise the prosecutors in charge to amend his rap sheet to include kidnapping the children.”

“Make sure you add threats of rape, assault, and death on that ‘rap sheet.’” John lets his bitterness edge into his tone, but, like sarcasm, it goes over McCall’s head.

“Will do, Stilinski,” he says cheerily before strutting off to ‘agent’ somewhere else.

Before McCall is even out of sight, John has his phone out, dialing the personal number of Jan Roberts, the district attorney of Humboldt County, the county adjacent to Beacon County immediately to the west. Redding is the county seat of Shasta County to the east.

The phone is answered on the third ring.

“Jan,” he says to her greeting, “it’s John Stilinski, in Beacon County.”

“John, hi,” she says. They used to run in the same circles at college, what with all the shared criminology courses they used to attend. She’s also how he met Claudia. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a favor, Jan,” he says. “I need to know my options if another jurisdiction is poaching my suspect, but I still want to pursue charges against him.”

“You won’t win against the FBI,” she says after a lengthy pause during which he can hear her typing. “The best you can do is get your case upgraded to a similar status so that they’ll add your charges to theirs and smack the suspect with a double-whammy.”

“I’ve got assault, kidnapping, threats of bodily harm, administration of a harmful substance. I mean, the list goes on.”

Jan hums and keeps typing. “Did the suspect take them across state lines?”

“No. They never even left town.”

“What was the ‘harmful substance’?”

“Still waiting on results. Two kids, a fifteen year old boy and an eleven year old girl were abducted. The boy sustained a series of blows to the head while the girl was given a sedative.” He sighs softly, already knowing Jan is going to tell him he doesn’t have a serious enough charge to challenge the FBI.

“John,” Jan says, “what exactly were the ‘threats of bodily harm’?”

“Rape and murder.”

Jan stops typing, and John imagines she has a gleam in her eye, the same one when she was winning her mock trials, when she couldn’t lose.

“John,” she says softly, “would you say the suspect incited terror?”

“What?” he says stupidly. He shakes his head, trying to understand what she is asking. “Do you mean—”

“I mean,” she interrupts, “do you think your suspect terrorized those children?”

“Yes, he did,” John says, thinking of how it had taken a few hours to calm Derek and Cora enough to talk clearly after Laura fainted, how they kept clinging to each other during their interviews, the deputies unable to separate them. “Those children were definitely terrorized.”

“Well, John, it looks like your suspect can also be charged with inciting terror. That should mean if they stand trial, they will have to answer for it. I hope that was helpful. Now, if you excuse me, I need to get back to my current case. See you around, John.”

“Yeah, see you,” he says to the silent phone. Well, it looks like he needs to talk to Agent in Charge McCall again.

John sighs.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to hiatus! Thanks for reading and subscribing and kudos-ing and double-thanks for commenting.
> 
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> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions canonical child abuse--added to tags

~ * ~

Mrs. Votsky hums under her breath as she taps the steering wheel, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

Cora, in the front passenger seat, grits her teeth. Derek can hear them grinding from his seat behind Mrs. Votsky.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear and darling?” Mrs. Votsky sing-songs, stomping on the accelerator and speeding through the intersection almost before the light turns. Derek clutches the seatbelt across his chest while Cora snorts derisively.

“You’re going to get a ticket,” Derek warns, quietly.

“You’re going to get us killed,” Cora says.

“Nonsense. You’ll be fine. Derek, darling, what say I teach you to drive once your foot is healed?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Votsky. I think Laura is looking forward to doing that herself.”

“And she’ll teach me too,” Cora adds.

“You don’t know what you’ll be missing,” Mrs. Votsky tells them.

Under his breath, Derek mutters, “All the speeding tickets.” Cora stifles a laugh into her hand.

They pull into Dr. Deaton’s parking lot before anything else can be said. It’s still early, and there are only two vehicles in the lot. Derek recognizes them from yesterday. He pops open his door, unbuckling his seatbelt. He is glad for the Votsky’s SUV because it means his crutches are in the backseat with him and therefore more easily reached. He still needs a touch of help getting out, but he doesn’t feel as useless at it as he did yesterday.

Dr. Deaton is waiting with Nurse Jennifer in the front room. He shakes hands with Mrs. Votsky before indicating Nurse Jennifer.

“Jennifer will do Cora’s intake exam while I speak with Derek. Then, I will speak with Cora. After that, I would like to speak with both of them together.”

“Come along,” Nurse Jennifer says to Cora, leading her to the room with the scale. Mrs. Votsky grabs as many magazines from the little tables as she can and plops into a chair to read them.

Dr. Deaton heads toward his office, and Derek follows him. Dr. Deaton holds the door for Derek, and he sinks into the same chair as yesterday.

Once he is seated, Dr. Deaton pulls out Derek’s folder and his fancy pens. “So,” he says, conversationally, “where would you like to start?”

Derek thinks for a few moments, trying to sort through his emotions and settling on guilt as the most prevalent. “Why do I feel so guilty for Cora’s and my abduction?” he asks, and Dr. Deaton taps his lips with his pen.

“Do you think it was your fault at all that you and Cora were taken?”

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t really know what to think. He has an idea, and it makes the guilt more reasonable. “Isn’t it? Gerard Argent only targeted us because his daughter was arrested for raping me. If I hadn’t said anything, she wouldn’t have been arrested, and Gerard Argent wouldn’t have came here looking for revenge.”

“Is that fair to you?” Dr. Deaton asks. Derek blinks at him. “I’m talking about remaining silent, staying in Kate’s control. Is it fair that Gerard Argent blames you for his daughter’s crimes?”

“No,” Derek mumbles.

“Is it fair that not only was Kate hurting you, but Peter was too? Is it fair for you to shoulder their cruelty, to keep their secrets, and then for you to be punished for it?”

“No, but,” Derek says, “I thought we were talking about my guilt for Cora being kidnapped?”

“We are,” Dr. Deaton assures him. “Because, Derek, it isn’t fair what’s happened to you. The one thing you will need to understand is that you are not liable for what others do,”

“But I am,” Derek insists. “If I hadn’t told on Kate, Gerard wouldn’t have threatened Cora.”

“But if Kate hadn’t abused you at all,” Dr. Deaton says. He leaves the rest unsaid.

“But,” Derek stammers, faltering. “But.” He snaps his mouth shut. If Kate hadn’t raped him, he wouldn’t have needed to tell on her and Gerard would never have come to Beacon Hills. “What about Peter?” he asks, and Dr. Deaton’s face twitches before he wrestles it back into a blank mask.

“What Peter did to you was also not your fault. No matter if you _could_ have told someone sooner, you never asked for the abuse.”

Nurse Jennifer knocks on the door. “Cora’s ready,” she says, and Dr. Deaton nods at Derek.

“Remember, I want to talk to both of you when I’m done speaking with Cora.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek stands and hobbles out to the hallway. Cora shoves past him, a stormy expression darkening her face. He crutches back to the waiting room where he takes the seat next to Mrs. Votsky. He wonders which emotion Cora is going to work on. Probably anger. She’s a very angry person. Good for her if it helps.

Mrs. Votsky looks up briefly from her _Scientific American_ issue, flashing Derek a toothy grin. He shudders, turning away to stare out at the mostly empty parking lot.

Twenty minutes later, Nurse Jennifer calls him to the front desk and then directs him back to Dr. Deaton’s office. Cora is curled in the loveseat, a stack of _Magic Eye_ books by her side. Dr. Deaton’s desk chair has been rolled out from behind his desk so that he can sit next to her.

“Cora, do you want to share with Derek or should I bring over another chair?”

Cora doesn’t bother to look up from her book when she mumbles, “Another chair.”

Dr. Deaton grabs the chair Derek has been using and sets it on the other side of the loveseat. Derek leans his crutches against the wall and sits. Once Dr. Deaton has collected a fresh notebook and pen, he sits and crosses a leg so he can use his knee as a makeshift table.

“Cora said something interesting,” he says, tapping the pen against the pad. “She said she feels like no one cares about her or her interests. Derek, I don’t want you to try and prove her wrong, but I think you should tell her some things about yourself.”

Derek bristles at that. “I will not guilt her into thinking that she is less important just because _you_ think it’s a good idea to reveal things that are in the past and done.”

Dr. Deaton stares at Derek, his expression flat and unreadable. “I merely wanted you to assure your sister that she is cared for, that she is important. Cora has told me about taking your money for her camp.”

“What about that?” Derek asks. “It’s doing her more good than it ever did me.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Cora snaps.

Derek growls. “Don’t. I would have given it to you if you had asked anyway. It’s not fair that Mom put you in that position.”

“I want you both to do something,” Dr. Deaton breaks in. “Ideally, I would have you do this at separate times, each in a session of your own, but I think you will benefit from being here together.”

He flips to a blank page in his notebook and rips it out. He creases the paper sharply and then neatly tears it into two halves. He hands each of them a small hardback book, the paper, and a crayon. Blue for Cora, green for Derek.

“What I want you to do is write down a list of everyone you are mad at. It doesn’t matter how mad at them you are, include their names on your list. You have five minutes, starting now.”

Cora immediately dives in, scribbling almost manically.

Derek pauses, thinks about who he is mad at. The obvious ones pop out, and he writes down Peter, Kate, Mom, and Dad. He writes Laura in little letters, thinks of his irritation with Cora from a moment ago and adds her name in even smaller letters. He puts down Dr. Morrell and her cruel nurse. Mrs. McCall for her role in the discovery. Gerard Argent. Sheriff Stilinski. The gossipers. Dr. Deaton gets added for this exercise. He flips over his paper and stares at the blank side for nearly a minute before printing his own name large enough to fill the whole page.

“And time,” Dr. Deaton says. He collects both of the pages and spends a minute or two reading them. “Many of these names overlap,” he says. “But, in your immediate family, Cora did not include one name that Derek did.”

Cora glances at Derek with a worried expression. Derek looks down at his hands to find them clenched tightly. He makes himself relax them and forces a smile that fades as soon as Cora’s attention is returned to Dr. Deaton.

“Cora,” he says, “why did you write Derek’s name on your list?”

She shrugs. “I guess I’m mad that he gets all of Laura and Benjamin’s attention. He gets treated special and I don’t.” She shrugs again, rubbing at her eye.

“Derek, why did you include Cora?”

“Jealousy,” Derek says simply. “She gets to be in a room and not be looked at like she’s going to break.” He blinks hard. “She isn’t looked at like she’s a monster,” he says softly.

“Is that why you wrote your own name?” Dr. Deaton asks. “Do you feel like you’re a monster?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” It isn’t so much that he’s a monster, but rather that he could be. “And maybe I just hate myself that much.”

“We’ll work on that,” Dr. Deaton promises. He glances at his watch. “Unfortunately, that is all the time we have today. Cora, I think you need more sessions. If the cost is holding you back, we do have assistance we can look into for you. The same goes for you, Derek.”

“What if I don’t want to come back?” Cora asks.

“I can give you a list of recommended therapists,” he replies. “You will benefit from therapy. I believe you should come back. I have an opening Monday afternoon at 2:00.”

“I’m going to a week-long camp this afternoon,” Cora says. “The Monday after that?”

“Speak with Jennifer on your way out today to work it out. Derek, 2:00 this Monday.”

Derek nods. He feels too tired to argue, but at least he won’t have to share another session.

“See you later, Cora. See you Monday, Derek.” Dr. Deaton dismisses them with a wave of his pen. Derek collects his crutches and Cora holds the door for him as they make their way back to the front desk. Nurse Jennifer already has two appointment cards for them. Derek will be back after the weekend and Cora will be in after her camp ends. Wonderful. Derek wonders how Laura will take the fact that Cora is starting therapy. Maybe Dr. Deaton will require Laura to join too. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

~ * ~

Friday afternoons tend to be busiest at the bakery. To accommodate, Claudia stays open two extra hours and keeps the kids longer. With training, it is even more hectic than usual.

That is her excuse for not noticing exactly when Kate Argent walks in.

Claudia goes cold all over when she realizes the woman is speaking to the new cook, Isaac Lahey.

“Excuse me,” she says to the customer she is in the middle of helping. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Allison step in to take over. Brilliant girl.

Claudia does not run to Isaac’s side, but that is more because there are too many people in her way. Damn rubberneckers spoiling for a blowup. Too bad Mrs. Walsh has been banned.

Isaac very nearly jumps out of his skin when she claps a hand onto his shoulder.

“Mrs. S.,” he says, sagging in palpable relief.

“Go back to the kitchen,” she says. “Take Vernon with you.” He nods and scurries away, the new stockroom clerk following more sedately. He must have been hovering nearby.

It settles Claudia a bit to realize she is not the only one looking out for the kids of the bakery, and it gives her the anger she needs to confront Kate, hissing, “What are you doing here?”

Kate looks terrible with her blackened eyes and taped nose. She’d heard the rumor that Cora had punched Kate, but she doesn’t think an eleven year old could do that much damage.

“I was looking for my niece, Allison, but she was busy so I decided to speak with one of my upcoming students.”

“The fact that you think the Beacon County Community School District isn’t going to fire you, if they haven’t already, is delusional.”

Kate laughs. “Claudia, you can’t tell me you believe those trumped up charges.” She laughs again. Claudia doesn’t know how she missed the cold and cruel nature of Kate. She pouts at Claudia when it’s obvious she isn’t falling for her farce. “I never touched that boy,” she declares, lowly. “He sought me out. Maybe I should have discouraged him, but I thought it was cute. I was dating his uncle and he wanted my attention. That’s all it ever was.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Claudia bites out through her clenched teeth. “If you have any decency at all, don’t lie to me about what you’ve done.”

Kate’s face lights up in delight. “So you do want details!” she crows. Claudia shivers in revulsion. Kate mistakes it for anticipation and starts talking. “Well, first, he tried kissing me and then—”

“Shut up.” Claudia grabs Kate’s arm and drags her to the office. She shoves her into a chair, fighting back the memory of Derek sitting there, terrified out of his mind because of what Kate did to him, and dials John. She looms over Kate, a hand on the woman’s shoulder to encourage her to stay seated.

John answers with a clipped, “Stilinski.”

“John,” Claudia says. Under her hand, Kate jerks. “I caught Kate Argent in my bakery.”

“On my way,” John says and hangs up.

Kate’s face crumples and she starts sobbing. “You can’t let him take me away. You can’t let them bury me with their false accusations.”

“Stop crying,” Claudia orders. “I’ve seen that boy react from what you’ve done to him. False accusation, my ass. You shouldn’t have even been granted bail.”

“This whole town is so far up the Hales’ asses that I’ll never get a fair trial.”

“Good thing your trial won’t be held here, then,” John says from the doorway. Claudia turns to face him, aware that Kate takes the opportunity to struggle free from her grip. John steps forward, dangling a pair of handcuffs off a finger. Dramatic. Claudia rolls her eyes.

“Kate Argent, you are under arrest for violating the terms of your bail release.”

Kate shrieks unintelligibly, arms flailing as she attempts to evade John. He shrugs, rolling his shoulders before pursing his lips and whistling shrilly. Tara, one of the longest-serving deputies on staff, steps into the room.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tara says annoyed. She grabs one of Kate’s arms while John takes the other. Together, they get the cuffs on and lead her away.

“John,” Claudia calls. He stops, looking back at her. “She was talking to Isaac Lahey. I called you mostly for that.”

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll get her stashed away, and then I’ll take Isaac’s statement.”

“I’m innocent,” Kate says plaintively to Tara.

“And I’ve got water-front property just downtown here,” Tara replies.

As soon as Kate is walked out to the patrol car, Claudia heads to the kitchen where she finds Isaac sitting on a stool dragged in from one of the registers, Vernon and Stiles hovering over him.

“Boys,” she says, and they all jump, looking guiltily at her. “I need Isaac to stay so he can answer some questions. Both of you are welcome to stay if Isaac needs you.”

Vernon and Stiles share a look before her son says, “Mom, come with me.” He leads her out of the kitchen and back to her office. He shuts the door firmly. “Kate was asking about Derek Hale. She knows Derek is friends with Lahey, Boyd, and Reyes.” The three new hires. “If isn’t stopped now, she’ll keep coming back.”

“I know that Stiles. Why do you think I called your father? I will not have that pathetic excuse for a human being harassing any of you. If there isn’t a stipulation in her bail release to keep her out of here, then I’m going to file a restraining order against her.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says simply, hugging her tightly. “I’m going back to Lahey now.” He leaves the door cracked, but Claudia doesn’t mind the hum of the still-busy shoppers chatting floating in. It’s almost relaxing to sink into her chair and stare at the ceiling, knowing that at least one thing is still normal.

God, she cannot wait for this week to be over already.

~ * ~

“Listen,” John says to Kate Argent, leaning over her where she is seated in the back of Deputy Graeme’s cruiser, “you’re in violation of your bail agreement. You’re not supposed to be anywhere within five hundred feet of minors.” He fixes her with a glare despite the fact that she refuses to meet his eyes. “Do you need me to count just how many minors you were within five hundred feet of?”

“No,” Kate spits lowly. She seems more defiant still than remorseful. Well, he can change that.

“I’m going to read you your rights again. Deputy Graeme is going to have you sign your Miranda Card. Then, you will be carted back to the Sheriff’s Department where your lawyer will be called and a new hearing will be scheduled to deal with your violation. If you’re lucky, you’ll be out again as early as Tuesday. If you’re not as lucky, you’ll be stuck in a cell until your trial starts.”

Kate doesn’t move. John sighs and begins reciting her rights. Graeme unlocks the cuffs so that Kate can scribble a facsimile of her name next to the ‘x.’ While Graeme refastens the cuff, John stashes the signed card in a strip-and-seal envelope. He dates it and initials over the flap. He leaves it in the front passenger seat, waving Graeme off.

John feels a bit giddy—two Argents in two days. Three if he counts Kate twice. Still, there is work to do: an interview with a fourteen-year-old kid.

He heads back into _Kitchen Fresh_ , taking note of the faces gawking the action. John nods at a few of them, little old ladies from the sewing circle run out of the back of the community center: Mrs. Abernathy, who used to own the house next door to his before she moved into the assisted living facility; Mrs. Henderson, a divorcee who never remarried and the mother of his usual night desk sergeant; and Pastor Johnson, the fastest sewer of them all.

A few others he knows are hanging out waiting for more drama. He glares at some of them and they scuttle away, leaving baskets of breads and sweet rolls abandoned on display cases. Wasted product. John shakes his head hoping Claudia doesn’t lose too much business over this.

Claudia is in her office, staring at the wall when he walks in. “Lahey?” he asks and she snaps her attention onto him.

“Kitchen,” she says dully.

“Are you doing okay?”

She shakes her head. “I thought confronting Kate would make me feel less guilty. Instead, I feel even more guilt for not stopping her interactions with that boy.” She sighs, standing up and walking around her desk. She stops in front of him. He realizes that she’s shaking with rage, coiled tightly and ready to spring. He wraps her in a hug.

“It is not your fault what she did to Derek.” Claudia stifles a sob. “It really isn’t.” John pulls back to find her crying. He uses a gentle thumb to wipe away the tears before kissing her forehead. “Do you want to talk to someone about this guilt you feel?”

“You mean a therapist?”

He nods. “I mean, it’s just a suggestion, but you seem to need more reassurance than I or Stiles can give you.”

“It’s not that you can’t,” Claudia begins.

John finishes, “It’s just that you don’t believe it.” Claudia drops her gaze. “It’s okay. But maybe you should look at an appointment with a professional.”

“Okay,” Claudia says faintly. John pulls her into another hug, taking the opportunity to kiss her forehead again. “Okay,” she repeats louder, more confidently. “Okay, I will.”

“Now,” he says when she steps back, “I need to see a young man about an encounter. The kitchen, you said? Mind if we use the office for privacy?”

Claudia shakes her head. John nods in satisfaction, turning about to walk through the thinned crowd to the kitchen.

Immediately, he notices the thin blonde kid shaking like a leaf, perched on top of a stool. Behind him, arms crossed over his chest, is a tall, broad-shouldered youth with a shaved head and a serious expression. Stiles waves from the rolling table where he is shaping loaves to be frozen for Monday’s baking.

“Isaac,” John says kindly. The kid still flinches. “Would it be all right to speak to you about Kate Argent?”

“She wanted to know if I’d been in contact with Derek,” Lahey says, shaky. “She kept claiming that he wanted her, that he was willing to go back to a relationship with her. Mrs. S.—your wife—interrupted her before she said or did anything else. Can I stay here, please?” The broad-shouldered boy sets a large hand on Lahey’s shoulder, squeezing in comfort briefly before stepping back again.

“Do you remember her exact words?” John asks.

Lahey nods. “She opened with, ‘So I heard you and Derek were tight during school. Any chance that’s still going?’” Lahey shakes his head. “That was so fucking weird of her to say.” Belatedly, he says, “Sorry for the language.”

John waves it away unconcerned. He has both heard and been called worse. And, it looks like it relaxes Lahey to use words he is obviously comfortable with to express himself.

“What else?” he prompts.

Lahey shrugs. “She asked if I still texted him, which total red flag. Derek doesn’t have a cell phone. His parents said he had to pay for it himself, and he was saving his money for other things so he didn’t bother. If I wanted to get a hold of him outside of school hours, I’d contact his sister Laura and she would pass along the message.”

“That is suspicious that Kate would ask that,” John agrees. Inwardly, he thinks Kate was fishing for information, perhaps thinking that since moving out of his parents’ house, Derek would have acquired a cell phone.

“That’s what I thought,” Lahey says. “I was so fucking relieved when Mrs. S. intervened and kept Kate from being weirder.”

After a long pause, Lahey whispers, begs if John is being honest, “Please don’t tell my dad I swore.”

Lahey, the old swim coach’s younger son, is almost the polar opposite of Derek. Where the Hale boy is quiet, respectful, beaten down, the Lahey boy is loud, often disobedient, and vivacious—when he is nowhere near his father. John pats Lahey’s shoulder and feels the fine tremors.

“I won’t,” he promises. “But, I need to know, is there anything you wanna tell me about him?”

Under his hand, Lahey flinches. “No sir,” he says, eyes downcast, unable to meet John’s eyes. John looks to the broad-shouldered boy. He raises an eyebrow at him.

“His dad is abusive,” the boy blurts, shooting an apologetic glance at Lahey. “He locks him in freezer in his basement.”

“I told you not to tell,” Lahey hisses. He is fairly vibrating with rage, and John thinks if he didn’t still have a hand clenched onto the boy’s shoulder, he would be attacking his friend right now.

“Dude,” the other boy says, “it’s the Sheriff. I’m not going to lie to law enforcement.”

“I told you not to tell!”

“Hey, now,” John says, stepping in front of Lahey. “It’s going to be okay. I’m not going to let your father hurt you anymore.”

“Oh yeah?” Lahey spits, venomous. “Well, fuck you! He’s been doing this for two years now. He’s never going to stop even if you talk to him!” Lahey lashes out, arms flailing as he tries to punch John. It takes everything in John to keep the boy on the stool while taking a couple shots to the kidneys.

“Isaac Lahey, you stop that right now!” Stiles shouts. Lahey freezes, panting wetly against John’s ear. “My dad is trying to help you. That does mean he is going to talk to your dad, but your dad will be in cuffs. You will not be taken back to your house and left there. That’s not how my dad operates.”

“My dad will beat the charges,” Lahey mumbles. “He’s well-liked and I’m just his bratty son spreading lies about him.”

“Is that what he says?” John asks, pulling back enough to see the tears streaming down Lahey’s face. The boy nods. “You should know,” he says, “what your dad says isn’t the truth. If he says no one will believe you, well, he’s lying. I believe you, son.”

“I believe you too,” Stiles adds.

“You know I believe you,” the other boy says. “You _know_ I do.”

“What do you say, Isaac?” John asks. “Will you let me help you?”

Lahey pauses, thinking it over for a long moment before he nods. “Can you really keep my dad from punishing me again?” He looks hopeful.

John nods. “He will never be alone with you again,” he promises. He straightens, patting Lahey’s shoulder one last time.

Now he needs to call in a couple of deputies to get the kids to the station for proper questioning and evidence collection. John also needs to find a partner so that he can go arrest Michael Lahey before it gets back to him that his son is not coming home.

What a fucking week. If only it were over already. But, there’s still a lot of hours left.

John sighs.

~ * ~

When his phone goes off again, Rafael silences it and shoves it deep in his jacket pocket. He looks over his notes again.

In front of him, hands secured to an eyehook under the table, Gerard Argent grins at him.

“Popular today, Agent,” he remarks. Rafael ignores the jibe. Stilinski can wait. “You haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he reminds Argent, tapping the line on his notebook reading ‘Mirandized, no lawyer—why??’

Argent raises an eyebrow. “Should I ask for a lawyer?”

Rafael shrugs. “Entirely up to you.”

Argent leans back as far as the short chain between his cuffs lets him. “No. I think I’ll wait and see what you try to do.”

“You have been read your Miranda rights and informed of the charges against you.”

“Yes.” Argent leans forward again, the chain clanking loudly with the movement. Reflexively, Rafael covers his notes. He doesn’t know if Argent knows how to read shorthand even if that shorthand is in Spanish. The way Argent smirks at him, he thinks it was a power play. And he fell for it. Damn it!

“Let’s start with the first charge. Kidnapping. Anything you want to tell me about that?”

“Does it really look like I could kidnap someone?” Argent wriggles his hands in a gesture Rafael is certain is meant to point out his obvious age.

“Do you really want an answer to that?” he asks Argent. He gets a shrug in response. “I think you think you’re charismatic. I think you get others to do your dirty work for you, but I also know you like to be at the center of the action. I think you did kidnap those kids. I think you are more than capable of doing something that sinister. Don’t try to play me for a fool.”

“I cannot make you into something you already are,” Argent says. His smug face is begging for a fist. Rafael deliberately relaxes his hand and picks up his pen again.

“Why did you come to Beacon Hills?”

Argent shrugs, and the chain rattles again. “My daughter,” he says simply. “I was here to help her. Is that a crime?” Rafael bites his tongue. The things Kate Argent is accused of doing? Hell yes Argent coming to town to ‘help’ her is a Goddamn crime.

“I paid her bail because, after all, she is my procreation. The fruit of my loins, if you will.”

Spawn of his loins, more like, Rafael thinks. He wonders how much of Kate is her father. How much of his snake-like demeanor and absent soul reside within her. He knows there are things he’s done that he can see in Scott. Every parent passes along their best and worst traits.

It makes him wonder if Argent has done the things his daughter has.

“Wouldn’t you do anything for your child, Agent?”

Rafael looks up to find Argent grinning at him. He wonders how Argent came by the info he has. They—meaning Rafael’s superiors—have long thought Argent has a mole in their ranks. Well, not in the San Francisco field office in particular, but rather the FBI in general. Rafael is inclined to agree with them. He doesn’t talk about Scott or his mother around the office, but they’re listed in his jacket for emergency purposes.

Argent’s face is getting closer to becoming acquainted with Rafael’s fist.

“Tell me, Agent, when was the last time you did something for your son?”

“How about we stick with what you did for your daughter?” Interrogation 101: don’t let the suspect rattle you. And failing that, don’t let the suspect see you rattled. Rafael passed all the technical classes and outperformed his classmates on cold tests. It’s why he’s the head honcho in his division at San Francisco, but even the best can have an off day.

Argent smirks. Rafael counts six shit-eating grins in the last fifteen minutes. He’s beginning to see why Cora Hale refused to call him anything but a ‘wrinkled penis of a man.’ Argent really needs someone to take him out back and beat some sense of morality into him.

“Agent McCall,” Argent sing-songs. Rafael stares impassively at him. “I just wanted to ask: have you hugged your son lately?”

Rafael goes cold. They had asked Argent’s associate, and he had confirmed, they were the only ones in town to deal with Kate. The associate had mentioned an impromptu meeting with Victoria Argent, Argent’s daughter-in-law. She has no ties to Argent’s operation that they can find. But, he wonders if maybe Argent has something on her.

“Your daughter,” Rafael tries, and Argent sneers at him.

“My daughter slept with Peter Hale. The charge that she raped him is ludicrous. As is the charges stemming from that brat.”

“I suggest you call your lawyer,” Rafael says. “You kidnapped those kids, you threatened them, and you endangered them. You’ll be lucky if all you get is a ten year sentence.”

“You’ll be lucky if you even have a body to identify,” Argent spits.

Now, Rafael grins. “That a promise?” he asks. “Or a threat? May I remind you that you were read your Miranda rights and offered a chance to call your lawyer. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. That right there, that slip of control? That’s going to bite you in the ass.”

Rafael tucks away his notebook and pen. Dismissively, he stands and pulls out his phone. Two missed calls from Stilinski and three text messages. Stilinski saying he needs to talk to Rafael ASAP, Stilinski saying he will be by to bug him after he does something important, and Rafael’s immediate superior with the words ‘call me.’

While Stilinski’s increasingly desperate messages are easily ignored, his boss’s text makes Rafael’s stomach drop.

He steps out of the room, waving at a deputy to take Argent back to his cell. His temporary office is tucked into an out of the way corner. It used to be a broom closet, he’s positive. It smells musty, and the discount air fresheners he scrounged off one of the deputies don’t seem to help.

It’s private though. Rafael shuts the door and sinks into a folding chair that creaks underneath his weight. He has enough room for a small table, and there are shelves built into the walls where he can keep the files he’s working on, but the room is tiny—he can reach across the whole room with a hand flat to either wall. But, the most damning evidence he has for his office’s former occupation is the single bulb hanging from the low ceiling that is activated by tugging on a pull-chain.

It’s cozy enough and lets him hide away from Stilinski, so Rafael hasn’t complained about it yet. It’ll definitely be in his report. Right now, though, he has other things to focus on.

He scrolls through his contact list until he finds Special Supervisory Agent Carson Taylor.

While he waits for Taylor to pick up, Rafael holsters his service weapon. His boss answers on the fourth ring.

“You wanted me to call, sir?”

“Yes,” Taylor sounds annoyed. A default setting for him. “Do you know anything about a terrorism charge being filed against Gerard Argent?”

Rafael thinks of Stilinski’s missed calls. “I have no idea, sir,” he says. “Is it domestic or foreign?”

“Domestic. It was filed by the local D.A. there.”

“Jan Roberts?” Rafael has met her a time or three, back when he was still married and his family used to attend the Stilinskis’ annual Fourth of July barbeque. He supposes Scott and Melissa still go.

“So you do know something,” Taylor accuses.

“No sir, I just know who the district attorney is up here. Which reminds me, Argent made a threat against my kid. It sounds like he has another accomplice here.”

“Jesus, McCall, stop being a robot and go check on your boy. Let the others check out Argent’s threat.”

“Sir, would you like me to contact Jan Roberts’ office to enquire about the terrorism charge?” He might still have her number, and it’s obvious Stilinski does too. He’s looking forward to confronting him about this stunt.

“No,” Taylor says. “I’ll do it myself. You go take care of your family. We all know how dangerous Argent is. He does not make idle threats.”

Rafael remembers being told about the abduction and murder of Taylor’s youngest son and his wife and daughter. What he hadn’t known about was Argent’s connection. He goes cold again.

“Check in regularly,” Taylor continues. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“Will do, sir. Thank you.” As soon as the call is disconnected, Rafael dials Melissa’s number. She doesn’t answer. She’s probably on shift at the hospital.

Agitated, he clambers to his feet and begins pacing. Two steps, spin, and four steps. Repeat. He grips his hair and tugs at it in frustration or fear, he really can’t tell at this point. He scrolls through his phone and dials the house, but either Melissa dropped the landline or unplugged it because it doesn’t even ring.

He doesn’t have Scott’s cell phone number because they—Melissa and he—agreed that it was Scott’s choice, if he paid the bill for it on his own. He hadn’t realized how much Scott hated him until even begging hadn’t produced the number. The only reason he hasn’t had his lawyer issue a subpoena for the number is that Melissa assures him there is no coming back from it. He wishes he had ignored her now. Their son could be in danger right now and he wouldn’t know because his ex believes in letting Scott cut his father out of his life.

No choice then but to steal a deputy and go to the house. Hopefully Stilinski won’t mind. And Rafael doesn’t much care if he does. It’s his son. Stilinski would do the same for his kid.

Yes, Argent, he _would_ do anything to help his child.

He sprints out into the bullpen proper and snags the first deputy he can find. He thinks this one usually works the front desk, which is only concerning for a moment because as soon as he explains what he needs from her, she goes to the gun safe and signs out a service weapon.

Despite the fact that she has to sign, date, initial, and note the serial number, they are still out the door and on their way inside of five minutes. During his admittedly short wait, he notices another deputy bring in a restrained Kate Argent for processing. He guesses she must have been caught violating the terms of her bail release. Surely, she wasn’t stupid enough to seek out a new victim.

“We’re going to the McCall residence,” he tells his deputy. “Silent with lights.”

“Yes sir,” Henderson, according to her nametag, says, cranking the key in the ignition.

While she focuses on driving, he calls Beacon Hills Memorial to have them let Melissa know he’s trying to get in touch with her regarding Scott.

The threat is against Scott, not Melissa, so of course his priority is his son.

When they pull up to the house, they find Scott standing out on the lawn, staring down Argent’s accomplice. The very same one that is supposed to be flying back to Idaho.

What is Deucalion-no-last-name still doing in Beacon Hills and why does it look like Scott’s about to invite him inside the house?

Rafael throws open his door. “Scott!”

Scott startles, raising his right hand in greeting. Rafael takes in the bandage wound around Scott’s hand and turns on Deucalion, gun out and in the man’s face.

“Hey, now,” the man says calmly. “There’s no need for that.”

“What are you doing here?” Rafael demands. Henderson butts in, and he’s glad to see her edging Scott away from Deucalion.

“You mean, why aren’t I in the air right now, heading for Gerard’s ranch?” Rafael nods. “I received a call from Gerard. Must have been, oh, about an hour ago. Said he wanted me to whack a kid, take some pictures. I was just trying to convince this young man to let me pose him as if dead. Give Gerard his proof without actually killing anyone.”

“Scott, is this true?” Henderson asks.

“I guess, yeah. He said something about a remotely detonated dye pack.”

Deucalion holds out a square no bigger than a saltine cracker and twice as thick. “I’ve faked enough deaths to fool Gerard. There’s a family in witness protection instead of six feet in the ground. You know of them, I think, Agent McCall.”

For a long, embarrassing moment, Rafael draws a blank. But then, he recalls his boss. “The Taylors,” he says. Deucalion nods. “Does—”

“Yes, he knows they’re not dead, but it’s better if everyone thinks they are. Gerard does have an agent on the inside. My plan is to use your son’s faked death to catch both of them. I can give you testimony of our conversations, and then you can let it slip that your son is actually still alive. I can follow that back to Gerard and oust the mole.”

“That sounds—” Rafael casts around for the right word “—elaborate. And dangerous for my son. Do you have any guarantee that it will work?”

“It’s worked before. There’s a reason Ennis Amos isn’t an agent anymore.” Rafael stares at him. Ennis Amos used to be an instructor at Quantico until it was discovered he’d been taking bribes from a number of career criminals on the FBI’s most wanted list. It was long suspected that he was in Argent’s pocket, but he’d never revealed his sources before dying in a prison riot. They only ever caught him taking payments from a petty smuggler.

“Dad,” Scott says. Rafael focuses on him. “Gerard Argent is a bad person, isn’t he?”

“Yes he is,” Deucalion answers instead.

“And you’d have a chance to take him down if I fake my death?”

Rafael nods. “But, it’s not like we don’t already have him on other charges.”

“But those don’t include his ‘mole,’ do they?”

“No, they don’t,” he confirms.

Scott looks at Deucalion. “You said this would definitely work?”

“It will,” Deucalion promises.

Scott turns back to Rafael. “Then let’s do this. I won’t be hurt, and you’ll catch your bad guys.”

“You wouldn’t be able to contact anyone for as long as you’re ‘dead.’ Not Stiles, not your mom.” Scott gulps at that, but then he squares his shoulders.

“It’s the right thing to do. Mom and Stiles and Allison will understand.”

Allison? Must be a girlfriend. New development.

Scott gets his stubbornness from both of them. Despite the severity of the situation, Rafael can’t help the pride he feels at his son for doing what he thinks is right even if it’s hard or difficult.

He only hopes Melissa feels the same way when she finds out.

Rafael slaps a hand on his face. “Your mom,” he groans. “We’ll have to ask her permission since she’s the primary custodial parent.”

“Good thing she’s here,” Henderson says, pointing at Melissa’s Camry, the woman herself storming up to them.

“Mom!” Scott calls. “Mom, guess what! I’m going to die and catch a mole!”

“What?!” Melissa turns to Rafael. “Explain. Now.”

So he does. At first, she looks worried and mad and keeps making aborted grabs at Scott. Then, she looks just plain mad. When he’s done talking, she puts her hands on Scott’s shoulders and stares into his eyes.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” she asks.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Scott says. “Plus, it’s not really real. It’ll just look like it.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to do it.” Melissa sighs. Uncharacteristically, she mutters, “This fucking week.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off again! Still looking for a beta reader. If interested, leave a comment or drop me a line at [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving kudos, and double thanks for commenting.


	15. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find something that you think needs to be tagged, don't hesitate to let me know.

~ * ~

Cora glares at the deputy sitting next to her. Mrs. Votsky apparently knows who Deputy Tara Graeme is, greeting her like a friend when she showed up at the Votskys’ house with a florescent yellow duffle over one shoulder.

This should be a happy time for Cora: she gets to go to camp. She isn’t mad that call-me-Tara gets to tag along. She understands that Tara is her protective duty while she’s at camp. She’s mad because immediately after Tara showed up, she and Mrs. Votsky put their heads together and started whispering. And now, Tara has the audacity to sit next to her and pretend she’s her friend.

Cora caught the words, ‘violation of bail,’ but when she tried eavesdropping further, Mrs. Votsky suggested they “Get a move on.”

As soon as they hit Beacon Hills’ city limits, Tara starts talking about her daughter, who apparently is Cora’s favorite instructor at Camp Bennington.

“Alice, slow down,” Tara says, interrupting herself. “It’s not a race.”

“Yeah,” Cora adds, too soft for Mrs. Votsky to hear, “we’d like to get there in one piece.” Tara smothers her laugh and winks at her. It makes Cora feel marginally better. Especially because Mrs. Votsky taps the brakes and resets her cruise control.

“Tell me about what you’re going to do at camp,” Tara prompts.

“You really don’t want to hear about it,” Cora says. No one listens to her, except Derek, but he once promised to always allow her to talk to him, although lately, it feels more like talking at him. She wonders what it means that she never made him the same promise.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Cora snorts at the shiny penny Tara offers her. “Too jumbled,” she says.

“No such thing. Tell me, what’s got you so worried?”

“My brother.” Cora shrugs. “I know Kate and Peter are walking free. What if they come after us like Kate’s dad did? What if they hurt Derek so much that he kills himself?”

Tara looks worried at that and Cora almost wishes she hadn’t said anything. “Has he expressed an interest in suicide?” Tara asks gently. Cora shrugs again.

“Maybe. The words used were ‘suicidal ideation.’ But he reached out and people helped him. People who were not me.”

“Does that bother you, Cora?” Tara asks. “That he didn’t reach out to you or that you didn’t get to help him?”

“Some of both?” Cora guesses. “I mean, I should be happy that he could be saved and that he wasn’t too far gone, but—” she stops herself, swallowing back the bitter confession. She is glad that Derek is still here. She _is_ , but it almost feels like he’s trying to get attention in a sensational way.

She knows her brother hates attention normally, but why else would he call a pretty redhead when his sister was a room away? The answer is he wants the notoriety that comes from letting people see him vulnerable.

Cora growls under her breath. This second-guessing isn’t helping either of them. In fact, the more she tries to analyze Derek’s motives, the angrier she gets until she knows she needs to stop or she might end up hating him as much as she hates Mom and Dad.

And that is not something she is okay with. For the longest time, it’s been her and Derek against the world, but mostly against Uncle Peter. Cora frowns, thinking again of the day Laura left. Cora had been too young to understand that Mom was holding onto her like a pawn and that her parents didn’t care enough about Derek to stop him from running after Laura.

“It’s okay to feel angry,” Tara says, gently. Cora ignores her. “Derek isn’t the only one allowed to feel things. Yes, his experience is horrific, but he doesn’t have a monopoly on being mad or sad or acting on those feelings. You have every right to be emotional.”

“Do you think I should be mad at Derek?” Cora asks softly. She thinks of Dr. Deaton’s exercise with the paper and names. She knows she didn’t write her name on her own paper, and the psychiatrist had claimed they only had one name that didn’t overlap. Derek wrote her name. And they both wrote his. “Derek is mad at me.”

“You can be mad at whomever you want,” Tara says. “The only one in charge of your feelings and emotions is you.”

Cora knows that, but still. “What if I feel bad about being mad at Derek?”

“If you do, think about why. Why would you feel guilty about being upset and expressing that upset?”

“Do you think Derek feels guilty?” Cora asks, thinking again of Derek’s paper with his name written too large to fit anything else on that side. He must, if he hates himself that much.

She doesn’t expect an answer from Tara, and she isn’t disappointed when the deputy remains silent. Cora turns to stare out of the window, watching the passing scenery with a disinterested eye. They aren’t even an hour into the trip. Already, she wants to go home, to spend as much time with her brother before he’s gone from her. Usually, she wants to go to camp, can’t sleep the night before because she’s too excited, loves the long journey to settle her nerves, can’t wait to see her friends again. But, this time, she feels grown up, like it doesn’t matter if the rich girls pick on her again, or if Lily has a new hearing aid, or if Liam will be in her unit this year.

What matters right now is her relationship with Derek. She can’t recall what he was doing when she left. She didn’t even get to say she loves him, just in case it’s the last time. She rattles the pocketful of change Laura gave her, the extracted promise of calling home every night. She had hugged her sister tight, and said, “I’m holding on this long so you can give some to Derek.” Laura had smiled at her and kissed her head, amused.

But where the fuck was Derek?

Cora rests her head against the window, closes her eyes, and lets the sound of the tires humming over the pavement lull her to sleep. It’s better than crying.

~ * ~

Michael Lahey denies any wrong doing—of course he does—but Deputy Kincaid finds the freezer Lahey’s friend mentioned. There are scratches on the inside of the lid and a strong smell of ammonia wafts up when it’s opened.

John tamps down his immediate response to heave the senior Lahey over his shoulder and deposit the lying scoundrel into the hell he subjected his son to.

Instead, he channels his anger into arresting the man and stuffing him in the back of a cruiser.

“Parrish just texted from the hospital,” Kincaid says after John slams the door in Lahey’s smug face. “Isaac has a few bruises consistent with being punched. He also has handprints on his arms. Parrish says the doctor says they’re so dark they can only be from repeated manhandling.”

“No guessing,” John says sharply. “Everything, and I mean everything, is done perfectly by the book. You have guesses? Find facts. You want to generalize? Find specifics. This bastard’s not going to wriggle out of this.”

His phone goes off before he can continue. Kincaid ducks away, trying to hide a look of relief. John lets him go and answers the call.

“Stilinski.”

“Sheriff,” a voice all but purrs him his ear. “Doug Whittemore here. I’m calling on behalf of my client, Peter Hale.”

“What do you need, Whittemore?” John snaps. He understands that Whittemore has a job to do, but he’s never liked the man, so having to deal with him in addition to the rest of the headaches of today alone makes John cold and angry.

Fortunately, Whittemore is firmly ensconced in his schmoozy-lawyer persona and ignores John’s tone entirely, all but chirping, “My client would like to meet with you and the A.D.A. assigned to his case.”

“Little late in the day to make that request, don’t you think?” He checks his watch, wincing as the second hand ticks past the twelve. Another minute gone. He really needs to find McCall before the agent absconds with Argent. He also needs to get Lahey senior fully booked and make sure Kate’s still sitting in her cell. And, it’s already nearer to 5:00 than 4:00.

“Hey, you’re a hard man to find,” Whittemore jokes. “Listen, Sheriff,” he says more seriously. “My client needs to meet with the A.D.A. We’re only including you as a courtesy so you won’t have to be informed after the fact. Now, I can call Asbury, have him meet with us, and risk you not being invited, or you can call him and set up the meeting.”

John grumbles under his breath. It sounds like a setup to have him do the dirty work of actually contacting A.D.A. Brian Asbury. He sighs and asks, “Can ‘your client’ wait until Monday? I’ll call Asbury today and let you know what he says, but I’m pretty sure, as I am, that he is busy the rest of today.”

“Hey, no, that’s fine,” Whittemore says in a tone that implies it’s anything but. “Just be sure to actually call him and let me know his answer. Thank you and have a good day, Sheriff.”

“You too, Mr. Whittemore,” John says a beat late. Whittemore has already hung up.

No sense in prolonging the inevitable, John thinks bitterly. He scrolls through his extensive contacts list until he finds Asbury’s number. No surprise that it’s listed under ‘jackass.’

Asbury answers on the third ring with a clipped, “Sheriff.”

“Mr. Asbury, Peter Hale’s attorney is requesting a meeting with you.”

“And he couldn’t do this through my office?”

John shrugs, aware that the action is lost in translation. “I’m guessing he’s going to give you information that might require an arrest or two.”

“You’re guessing?”

“Whittemore didn’t tell me anything other than Hale wants to meet with you. He heavily implied that I should be present.”

“Again,” Asbury says, “you’re guessing.” He sighs loudly. “And you want me to take Kate Argent back to Judge Mollie for, what, a brief infraction?”

John bristles. “Kate Argent violated the terms of her bail release. She sought out a minor and—”

“She’s allowed to be within five hundred feet of her niece. Her brother and sister-in-law signed off on it.”

“She approached the minor at _Kitchen Fresh_ , Claudia’s bakery,” John says coldly.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Kate’s niece works there,” Asbury interrupts.

John’s temper boils again. “Kate approached a _male minor_ and asked him questions about her victim.”

“Alleged,” Asbury inserts weakly. John imagines the prosecutor leaning back in his office chair as realization sets in. “Jesus. She really approached another boy to ask about her alleged victim?”

“Yes, she did. That’s why we need to go before Judge Mollie again. Her bail needs to be increased or outright denied. And she needs to be on an ankle monitor like Peter Hale.”

Asbury sighs again, albeit quieter this time. “I hate this fucking town,” he mutters, shuffling what sounds like papers together. Louder, he says, “We can go before Judge Mollie on Monday, give Ms. Argent time to think about her actions. As for Mr. Hale…I might be able to meet in an hour. Can you?”

John checks his watch again. This conversation with Asbury has already burned seven minutes they don’t have. “I’ve got to get Kate Argent fully processed tonight, but an hour should work. See you at the station?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Sheriff.” Asbury hangs up. His parting words remind John of when the kid was a fresh face in town five years ago. He’d shadowed John for a week, always answering with that phrase no matter what John asked him to do.

John thinks Asbury was probably being sarcastic this time, but it’s still nice to be referred to as ‘sir’ and ‘sheriff’ in the same sentence again.

Whittemore’s secretary answers his phone, and John leaves a message with her about Asbury’s agreement to meet with Peter Hale.

He scrubs a hand over his face and climbs into his car. Kincaid is long gone with Lahey, so John makes a quick—thirteen-minute—detour and grabs a bite to eat before his meeting. He isn’t really worried about Kate. He trusts his deputies. He’s just positive tonight is going to be another long one.

Peter Hale and his attorney are already in the station’s only interrogation room, Deputy Parrish watching over them through the one-way mirror. John hands him the wrapper from his burger and enters the room. According to his watch, Asbury should be here in about fifteen minutes.

“Sheriff,” Whittemore greets, tone droll. “Mr. Asbury’s office assures me that our intrepid A.D.A. is on his way. In the meantime, maybe you can update us on my client’s case—the one pending against Katherine Argent,” Whittemore hurries to add.

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” John says. “Evidence collected is still being processed.”

Whittemore sits forward. “It has come to our attention that Ms. Argent’s bail requirements were not as strict as my client’s. We believe that is an oversight of the judge’s and needs to remedied immediately.”

“I agree,” John says. “However,” he holds up a hand to keep Whittemore from speaking, “you may be disappointed to find that I do not believe either your client or Ms. Argent received adequate punishment for their crimes—excuse me—their _alleged_ crimes.”

“We don’t have to listen to you demean my client,” Whittemore exclaims.

John shrugs, indifferent. “Your client, Mr. Whittemore, is the one who requested this meeting. If he wants to be heard, then he must listen. Now, as far as I’m aware, your client has not violated the terms of his release. Therefore, he is free to continue to do whatever he has been doing since his arrest and arraignment. But, know this: the second he steps a toe out of line, I’ll bring him in so fast he won’t have time to do anything else.”

“Careful, Sheriff,” Whittemore says, “that sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise,” John corrects. “Your client—” he pins Peter with a severe look, watching him squirm uncomfortably “—shouldn’t have anything to worry about if he behaves.”

Peter leans over to Whittemore to whisper in his ear. Whittemore nods. Then, he pins John with an ominous look of his own. “My client would like the same protective custody that you are offering his nieces and nephew.”

“No,” John says immediately. “Half of that protective detail is to protect those kids from your client.”

“You’ve already decided that I’m guilty, haven’t you, Sheriff?” Peter Hale asks sadly. John reins in his snort. “I love my nieces and nephew. Never could I ever hurt any of them like that. Derek has a—”

“Let me stop you right there, buddy,” John says. “Your sister and brother-in-law admitted they’ve already caught you molesting your nephew.”

“I did,” Peter says, despite the almost desperate warning to shut his mouth Whittemore gives him. “But,” Peter continues, “that was when I was eleven. Talia and James sent me to a rehabilitation center, and I was rehabilitated. I haven’t touched anyone inappropriately, least of all Derek.”

“You are lying through your teeth. You and I both know you’ve been raping that boy since you came back from that center. All you really learned was how to hide it.”

Before either Peter or Whittemore, can refute John’s accusation, the door opens and Asbury sweeps in to drop into the seat across the table from them. He pulls out a thick file from his messenger bag, lays it open on the table, and scrapes a hand through his sandy-blonde hair, making it stand on end.

“Peter Hale,” he says blandly, “why have you called this meeting?”

Peter opens his mouth, but Whittemore cuts him off by saying, “We want a plea deal.”

Asbury laughs. “What?”

“A plea deal,” Whittemore repeats. Peter sinks low in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he pouts. Of course, a plea deal would require Peter to acknowledge his abuse of Derek. That’s usually how those things work. “We’ll give you Kate Argent without a doubt and unable to escape. In return, my client gets a reduced sentence. Now, this shouldn’t be taken as an admission of guilt.”

John stares in disbelief. The balls on this fucking lawyer. How reduced is the sentence he wants Peter to serve?

“Why shouldn’t it count as an admission of guilt?” Asbury questions. He sounds like he’s trying not to laugh again.

“Because of Kate Argent’s documented abuse, there is no way to prove my client’s innocence, especially as his word is not being taken as seriously as we had hoped.”

Whittemore glares at John, but it doesn’t faze him, not like their ‘plea deal.’

“So, just because you don’t think a jury will acquit your client, you want a deal that means your client will maintain his innocence of a crime that, by the way, has already been admitted earlier—” Asbury taps the file “—in the hopes of, what, revenge?” He shakes his head. “I think we’ll wait for what the labs in Sacramento can tell us.”

“You’re going to trust the ‘evidence’ collected at my client’s home to prove that he was there? That he did the same things to that boy that Kate Argent did? We can give you Kate unequivocally. Can you say the same thing about my client?”

“Are you trying to prove your client didn’t do it?” Asbury asks. “Or, are you trying to prove he did?” The attorneys stare at each other without blinking for a solid minute.

“Is it so hard to believe that I didn’t rape my nephew?” Peter asks.

“Yes,” John says. “I submitted to evidence photographs of you with your nephew. You know a common theme in all of them?” Peter shakes his head. “Derek was trying to get away from you.”

“That was after Kate started hurting him,” Peter protests.

Now it’s John’s turn to shake his head. “No, Peter,” he says. “The pictures were all taken before you met Kate. Kate wasn’t the reason Derek couldn’t stand to be near you. _You_ were.”

~ * ~

The whole faking the death thing goes smoothly, Scott thinks.

All he has to do is wear the dye pack under his shirt, lie on the ground, and let the not-hit man do his job.

Afterward, once Scott has changed clothes and hugged his mom, he gets in the Camry and his dad drives him all the way to a tiny town called Newell, two hours north and east of Beacon Hills.

“There’s a safe house up here,” Dad explains. “It’s run by a woman named Araya Calavera. I’ll pick you up in just a couple days if everything goes well. Araya and her son, Severo know how to get in touch with me if you need me for anything.”

Scott stays silent. It’s begun to sink in just what he agreed to do. Stiles and Allison will think he’s dead. Maybe forever if the not-hit man can’t figure out who the mole is. Dad made him leave his phone with Mom to ‘lower the temptation’ of reaching out.

He isn’t sure doing this is the right thing anymore. What if he really can’t go back home and has to live with the Calaveras forever? But, it is too late for second guesses. Probably has been too late since Mr. Deucalion showed him the dye pack. All Scott wanted was to be important.

Dad ruffles his hair. “You’ll be fine,” he says, but it sounds hallow, like he’s trying to convince them both. “Araya will take good care of you.

Still, Scott doesn’t say anything. To him, there is nothing to say.

They turn into a gravel driveway and Dad parks in front of a single story house with a wide deck running the length of the house. Standing on the front steps is a short, stocky older woman with dyed brown hair. In one hand, she brandishes a wooden cooking spoon. The other is hidden under her patterned apron.

Dad shuts off the engine and climbs out of the car. He pulls a suitcase from the trunk and heads for the woman. Scott follows slowly.

“Araya,” Dad greets warmly, his eyes bright and smile wide. Fake, Scott thinks, it’s all fake. Dad doesn’t like Araya, and from the way Araya is glaring at Dad, she doesn’t like him either.

“You are stupid,” she says, leaning forward to shake the spoon in Dad’s face. “And a coward,” she adds. “Putting your only son in that position. Shame on you, Rafael.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my choice,” Dad defends himself. “And for the record, I’m proud of Scott for doing what was right.”

“But was it?” Araya asks. She turns to Scott. “You are brave, make no mistake of it, but it was selfish of the adults to ask this of you. Tell me, Scott, was there a moment at all where you did not want to go along with the plan but someone, some adult—” she glares at Dad “—convinced you it was better to keep going?”

Scott cocks his head. Did he feel pressured? It’s easy to say yes now. To think of the almost desperate way Mr. Deucalion laid out his intentions from the start. In a way, Scott thinks, yes, he was coerced. But, he’s always been easily manipulated. Being friends with Stiles has proven this.

Why, then, didn’t Dad step in and stop it? Why didn’t Mom?

“See?” Araya says, smugly. She whacks the spoon against Dad’s shoulder.

“You always have to be right, don’t you?” Dad grumbles, pushing past her to drag the suitcase into the house.

Scott waits until Araya goes inside too before he even steps foot on the stairs. He isn’t sure he can do this. He really wishes he had his phone right now. Stiles could probably talk him into staying, seeing it through. Or he might yell at Scott for making him think he’s dead.

“Come, Scott,” Araya calls from the kitchen. She’s using a different spoon, Scott is glad to see, to stir a pot of something spicy and delicious smelling on a propane-powered stove.

The kitchen is small and neat, with rows of jars lined up on the counters, the contents labeled in Spanish. Appliances crowd together on the far side, and a small island takes up the center of the floor. Tucked in a corner under a window shaded with pull-blinds is a small table.

In the chair closest to the window, a man sits, reading a newspaper. His hair is dark and cropped short, and he has a goatee around his mouth. His resting face looks like he wants to murder something. Scott gulps.

“Sit,” Araya orders. Dad enters the kitchen sans suitcase and takes the seat next to the newspaper man. Scott slips into the chair across from him. “Severo,” Araya says sharply.

The man folds his paper and tosses it onto the counter. Then, he stands up and fetches the pot of stew. Araya sets bowls and silverware in front of each chair.

“Should I help?” Scott asks his dad, who shrugs, but stands to grab glasses for each of them.

Severo serves them, and Scott stifles a hysterical giggle. Severo simply means severe, but it’s still funny.

Dad glares at him. “Sorry,” he apologizes to Araya. “It’s been a weird day for him.”

Araya waves her hand. “No worries with the boy. You, on the other hand. How is Melissa? Still in one piece?”

Dad flushes in anger. “Melissa is fine,” he bites out, stabbing his spoon into the stew.

“What about Mom?” Scott asks. Whenever Dad visits, he usually takes Scott to the park instead of staying home. And there’s a lady who follows them sometimes.

Mom once explained that it was because of Dad’s job, but Scott knows when Mom lies, and she lied then.

“Rafael is not a kind man when he drinks,” Severo says, his first words. His voice is not as deep as Scott was imagining it to be. “How many years sober now, eh, Rafael?”

“Too many,” Dad mutters. Louder, he says, “Five.”

“You and Mom got divorced five years ago,” Scott says. He looks down at his bowl, his spoon held awkwardly in his left hand. He uses it to scrape the side of the bowl. “You used to be drunk all the time.”

He knew that. He’s always known. Stiles has known it too. They called Stiles’ dad on Dad once when he went after Mom and she didn’t move for a long time.

Shortly after that, they sat down at dinner, just Mom, Dad, and him, and announced their plans to divorce.

Scott has never begrudged his mom leaving his dad. She’s been happier without him.

And Dad visits often enough that Scott doesn’t miss him. Like Severo said, when Dad’s drunk, he’s not a nice person.

“How long are you staying, Dad?” Scott asks. Dad looks guilty.

It’s Araya who answers him, though. “He’s leaving tonight. In fact, he’s overstayed his welcome already.” She gives Dad a pointed look, and Dad puts down his spoon. He stands up, laying a hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezing it briefly.

“I love you, son,” he says. “Don’t ever forget that.” To Araya, he says, “I put Scott’s bag in the central bedroom.”

Araya nods and then Dad’s gone. The Camry backs out of the drive and turns the corner. Gone. Like Scott’s appetite.

“This town is safe,” Araya says. She leans over and ladles more stew into Scott’s bowl. He thanks her quietly, finally, sloppily, eating a bite. It’s good, but it’s not his mom’s cooking, and all of a sudden, Scott very definitely feels like crying.

“The town of Newell was built as a non-incorporated community. There is a corner store, a library, a church, and a series of houses inhabited by agents all trained to look after the occupants of this house and others like it.”

Scott sniffles. “Dad said this is a safe house?”

Araya smiles, and she looks less severe. “It is. It is a safe town too. There is no one here who we do not know.”

“So, I could go outside?” Dad had drilled into him that he couldn’t. That it wouldn’t be safe.

Araya’s smile falters. “While it is a safe town and you will be allowed in the backward, it is not smart to tempt trouble. You should stay close.” She claps her hands. “Come now, finish your dinner. Severo will show you to your room.”

Scott buckles down and eats as quickly as he can. He grimaces at the spills of stew running down his shirt, feels it dripping from his chin. Severo grins at him, throwing a wad of paper towels at his face. He cleans as best he can, thanking Araya again when she gathers his dishes and sets them in the sink to soak.

Then, he follows Severo down a short hallway to a series of doors. Severo pushes open the middle door and gestures inside.

“There’s no outside access,” he says. “Lights out is enforced. There is a playroom, also with no outside access where you can spend your days. Be careful, my mother may decide you need to learn how to cook.” He winks. “It is a great pastime.”

“I already know how to cook,” Scott says, indignant. “I work at a bakery in my hometown.” He flexes his wrapped hand. “Well, I did before I burned my hand.” He looks around the room, taking in the sparse furniture and thick, dark green carpet. There is a nightstand next to the twin bed. A heavy oak dresser sits in the corner. It looks like there should be a window, but the room feels shortened.

“Bathroom is directly across the hall.” Severo points it out. “Did you remember to pack toiletries?”

“My mom or dad packed my bag for me,” Scott admits. “Maybe?” Dad left the suitcase by the dresser. He unzips it and finds a Ziploc baggie with his toothbrush, a fresh tube of toothpaste, a comb, and some zit cream on top of his neatly folded clothes.

“I’ve got it,” he says to Severo.

“Good,” the man replies. “Go brush your teeth, wash your face. Lights out is in half an hour.”

“But it’s only 7:30,” Scott protests.

Severo shrugs. “You’re a growing boy. My mother says you need your rest. Besides, it makes it harder to find you at night.” He leaves Scott standing in the middle of the room, trying to process what he’s just been told.

Will someone find him here?

Frightened, Scott runs after him. “Wait, I thought you said this was a safe town,” he says. “Is it not?”

Severo sighs. “It _is_ safe,” he insists, “but it is not one hundred percent fail proof. As long as my mother has been the keeper of this house, we have never lost a charge. Other houses have—though not in town exactly. We will not start a losing streak with you. Brush your teeth and go to bed.”

Then, he walks away

Not any more comforted, Scott lets him go.

Mechanically, he scrubs his teeth. He splashes water on his face and then carefully puts the zit cream on the most problematic spots of his face. Then, he dries his hands and goes back to his room. He changes into a tank top and boxer shorts, folding his pants and shirt and setting them atop the dresser for now. The house is air conditioned, and Scott shivers under the vent in his room for a few moments before flipping the light switch off and running across the floor to dive under the thick duvet on the bed.

He doesn’t think he’s going to fall asleep at all tonight, too terrified by Severo’s warning. He wonders if Mr. Deucalion decided to seek out the mole today or if he’s going to wait. And will anyone tell Scott he can come out of hiding or are they going to leave him here indefinitely?

He wriggles around, tossing and turning, not staying still long enough for his body heat to warm the bed enough to soothe himself to sleep. It’s frustrating, is what Scott thinks.

What will Mom do without him? Is Mrs. S. going to replace him at the bakery? Stiles’ last text that Scott received before his dad took the phone away said something about shit going down with Lahey.

Coach Lahey who just retired from the swim team or Coach Lahey’s weird kid, Scott wonders. Probably Isaac. The kid acts too cool for friends but is a hanger on of Derek’s. He wonders how Hale is doing. If he’s back in that suicidal phase again or if he’s still doing okay. Stiles hasn’t said anything lately about him, but Scott knows Stiles drove Derek to an appointment at The Sanctuary Health Clinic.

He feels anger flare at being cut out of the action, but then he reminds himself, he’s off having an adventure none of the others can hear about, and it makes him feel better. Petty but happy. Weird.

Scott doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but he falls asleep between one jumbled thought and the next.

~ * ~

“Next,” Mr. Samson calls, and Cora shuffles up to the table. Despite napping in the car, she still feels exhausted, drained and lost. The lines aren’t helping either. Even though there are five counselors signing in kids, it’s still taking a long time. Cora sets her suitcase down and leans forward to grip the pen Mr. Samson offers her.

He looks at her with—pity, she thinks, but she is too tired to do more than grunt at him. She signs her name with near perfect loops, glaring down at her last name. Mom made Dad change his last name when they got married so Dad became James Hale instead of Mom becoming Talia Valens.

Cora wonders what they would be like if they were Valenses instead of Hales. Would Peter still live with them? Would he still have hurt Derek? Would any of them have even been born?

“Here’s your keycard.” Mr. Samson disrupts her mental wandering. He holds out a sky-blue rectangle of plastic decorated with a double-helix DNA model clipped to a royal blue lanyard. Every year the picture on the card is something different. Last year, it was a diagram of the human body and the year before was a map of the solar system. She wishes they were allowed to keep them each year, but at checkout, they are forced to surrender them. Something about the cost of creating new keycards.

Which is total bullshit—she looked up how effective it would be to recycle versus buying new, and the cost was negligible. They can afford to deactivate some of the cards to use as souvenirs.

Cora takes pictures of all her keycards when she gets to her bunk, but a picture is only a flash of a memory, and she would rather hold the physical item anyway.

“Next,” Mr. Samson says, and Cora backs away from the table, dragging her suitcase with her and heading for the auditorium where they will have orientation once the last arrivals are signed in.

“Saved you a seat,” someone says when she passes a mostly empty row. Cora glances at him and almost scowls before she recognizes him.

“Liam.” They embrace briefly, and Cora wrinkles her nose at the copious amounts of body spray he’s wearing. It makes her feel overly aware of her tiny but developing breasts and the fact that she didn’t remember to put on deodorant before the drive down.

Liam grins crookedly at her and then plops back into his seat, tugging her down with him. He swipes his hands through his floppy hair, more blonde than when he keeps it shorter. She pats at her messy braid, tucking flyaway strands back into it.

“So,” he says, tilting his seat back until it squeaks. She shoots him an annoyed look as she tucks her suitcase under her feet. “I’m going to be in Willow Unit this year,” he continues, refusing to look up.

“That’ll be good for you,” she says. She means it too. Liam only comes to these camps because his dad, an architect, wants him to follow in his footsteps. Liam isn’t stupid. He just doesn’t understand science and math the way she does. Willow Unit is designed to help people like him understand some of the projects the camp does. So, yes, it’s good for him to be in Willow Unit. But, Cora is going to be in Deciduous Unit, which is the second most advanced unit at Camp Bennington. The only one more difficult is Fichus Unit for high schoolers. All it means is that she and Liam won’t be in the same unit this year.

Cora isn’t sure if she should be disappointed or not. She used to have such a crush Liam when they were eight and he would rescue her from the rich bitches of the greater Sacramento area. But, she hasn’t really felt that way about him in years—a year, or so—and she’s too self-conscious now to seek him out.

“So,” Liam says again. He kicks his feet up onto the back of the seat ahead of him, “um, I know we’re not gonna be as close this year, and you still don’t have a cell phone, but do you wanna maybe go out with me?” He looks hopeful.

“We’re eleven,” Cora reminds him, and his face falls. “Wait, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, it is but it’s not, you know?”

“No,” Liam says slowly, uncomprehendingly. “I don’t know. I don’t think I understand it at all. Is it because we’re eleven or is it because of something else?”

“My parents got arrested,” she blurts out. Liam stares at her. “My parents,” she repeats. “They were arrested. Now my brother and I live with my sister and her boyfriend. I guess we could go out sometime. Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?” Liam eyes her with visible concern. “You just said—your parents were arrested? Why?”

Cora waves a hand. “I can’t talk about it since it’s an on-going investigation.”

“Do you even know why they were arrested?”

She looks around, stalling. No one is paying any attention to them, too busy seeking out friends from past camps. She clenches her fists.

“Yes,” she says shortly. “They were arrested because—” she stops. She frowns. “I don’t know why they were arrested actually. My sister never told me why they were arrested.”

“Is it because of their charities?” Liam asks. “Maybe something wasn’t above board?”

Cora glares at him, irritated. “I just said I don’t know why they were arrested.”

“No, I know,” he says soothingly. “I’m just speculating.”

“Well, stop it. You’re annoying me.”

Liam opens his mouth to respond, but on stage, Director Calverson rings her stupid little bell and clears her throat.

“Welcome to Camp Bennington!” she says enthusiastically. “I see some new faces sprinkled in among our alumni. Let me just tell you, you’ve made a splendid choice and we hope you think so too.”

Cora tunes her out. Director Calverson always says the same intro followed by the same rules. Lights out at 10:00. No opposite sexes in rooms after lights out. All equipment is paid through a grant so if something breaks, let a counselor know immediately. The usual. Cora has never had to worry about breaking the rules. She looks to her right and then faces forward again.

She’s not ready for sex, she thinks. It looks painful—Kate and Peter’s fucking—or it makes the head and heart hurt—Derek’s experiences.

She leans close to Liam’s ear and whispers, “We can go out, but no sex.”

Liam pulls away, blinking stupidly. “Who said anything about sex?” he hisses shrilly.

“I did.”

“Well don’t. We’re not having sex period.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

Call-me-Tara drops into the seat next to Cora. “So,” she says, winking at Cora. “Who’s this?”

Liam blanches, probably thinking that Tara heard their little discussion. Cora feels a little sick at the prospect herself.

“Liam Dunbar.” Liam sticks out his hand so that Tara can shake it. “I’m a friend of Cora.”

“Liam Dunbar, friend of Cora. I’m glad to hear you won’t be having sex period.”

Liam covers his face and sinks even lower in his seat. Cora glares at Tara.

“What were my parents arrested for?” she demands.

Tara, who had been grinning at Liam’s discomfort, sobers quickly. “They were charged with failure to stop abuse of a minor, facilitating the rape of a minor, and endangering the welfare of a child.”

“Why were they charged?” Liam asks quietly.

“Because they chose my uncle over my brother,” Cora responds. “My uncle raped my brother, and my parents let him.”

Liam looks sad. He’s never met Cora’s family as his dad always picks him up Saturday while Mom or Dad never arrive before Sunday.

“That’s a bummer,” he says. “Did they arrest your uncle too at least?”

“Yeah, but he made bail, and then Kate’s dad kidnapped Derek and me.”

Liam stares wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. “What?” he stutters. “Who? What—why?”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Tara says. “Your camp leader is dismissing you by last name. She’s on the As right now.”

“Did she announce the top prize?” Liam asks. Director Calverson will not have done that yet, Cora thinks. She usually likes to wait until lunch of the first day to announce the prize for the most inventive unit. She likes her schedules.

Since this year’s theme is DNA/genetics, Cora intends to map the genetic structure of a potato. She’s hoping to argue for a super-potato. Of course, she probably won’t be in charge of her unit and will have to concede her idea, but that’s why Director Calverson waits until after lunch to allow them time to meet with their units.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Cora says to Liam when the kids with last names starting with ‘D’ are dismissed.

“Yep,” he says, leaning over to give her a quick squeeze before scrambling out of his seat and into the aisle with his ratty duffle bag thumping against the back of his legs.

Cora turns to Tara. “Were my parents really arrested because they let Peter live with us?”

Tara sighs. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but essentially yes. Your parents were arrested because they were aware of Peter’s abuse and did not do anything about it.”

“Do you think,” Cora begins, pausing to wipe at her eyes, unsure why she’s even tearing up. It’s annoying. “Do you think they would have done something if it had been me Peter was hurting?”

“I don’t know,” Tara answers honestly. “I would hope so.”

But they didn’t when it came to Derek, Cora hears even though it’s left unspoken. God, Mom and Dad suck.

Director Calverson dismisses the Hs, and Cora trudges out of the auditorium to find her bunk. She rattles her pocket of change as she walks, her suitcase’s wheels clattering over the tiled floor. There isn’t a lot of time left before lights out, but Laura is expecting a call. She’ll get settled first, Cora decides. That way, if she does run out of time, she won’t be in trouble on the first day. Laura will understand.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I said I'd post this on Friday but my work schedule changed and now I don't know when I'll have the energy or time to post it. On that note, that means that the next chapter could be posted as much as two weeks from now. Sorry.
> 
> Thanks to all who read, kudos, and comment. It is appreciated.
> 
> ( _Psst_ , if you wanna complain about the long wait, come check out [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)! I'll listen, I promise!)


	16. Fifteen

~ * ~

Laura curls up in the recliner closest to the television, her cell phone clutched in one hand, a mug of cold coffee in the other. She’s been there since Mrs. Votsky and Deputy Graeme drove off with Cora. Derek observes her from his position stretched out on his allotted air mattress. Often, though, he naps fitfully, the inaction driving him to sleep.

Occasionally, Laura makes a call or gets one, but she talks in a low voice, glancing at him often so he pretends not to try to eavesdrop on her even though she keeps waking him up.

Both Benjamin and Mr. Votsky are at work, Mrs. Votsky won’t be back until late, and Laura is ignoring Derek. He knows she’s worried about Cora. He is too. Mrs. Votsky is a piss-poor driver and they’ll be lucky to make it to Sacramento without any close calls.

_Kitchen Fresh_ is open today, so none of Derek’s friends that work there now has been able to contact Derek with updates, but he’d managed to eavesdrop on Laura’s conversation with Benjamin on his lunch break. Apparently, the Sheriff is going crazy and arresting everyone in sight. Derek thinks this is a good thing since it appears he’s targeting those that deserve it. His latest conquest is the old swim coach, Lahey, Derek’s friend Isaac Lahey’s dad.

Derek knew someone was hurting Isaac, but his friend hadn’t revealed who it was. A few observations amongst Boyd, Reyes, and Derek pointed at Coach Lahey as the most likely suspect, so he isn’t surprised by the arrest.

He’s glad Isaac won’t have to deal with his dad anymore, but he wonders where his friend is going to live now. Isaac’s older brother, Cam, is on active duty, deployed to Iraq, and his mom disappeared before Cam graduated high school.

Laura and Benjamin can’t handle another charge, especially one like Isaac, who probably will be recommended therapy as well. Hell, Laura and Benjamin can barely handle Derek and Cora now.

It’s this exhaustive round-and-round thinking that leads to him dozing off often—along with the fact that his release stated that he was to keep his foot as immobile as possible, and according to Laura, he can only do that if he lays flat on his back and does absolutely nothing.

He wakes up disorientated when Mrs. Votsky returns. It must be nearly eight or nine, he thinks. Maybe later since it’s almost completely dark outside the window he can see from his bed.

He waits for his head to clear a little before he tries sitting up. Laura sees him and hurries to his side.

She pats at his arms, almost holding him down. “It’s late, you should just sleep.” Derek shakes her off and grabs for his crutches. “Seriously, Derek, just lie down.”

“I’ve been lying down all day since the appointment. Why can’t I be up now?” Laura looks away, and Derek thinks he catches a glimpse of guilt flashing across her face. “Laura?”

“Kate was arrested for violating her bail release agreement.”

“And?” Derek hears one even if Laura doesn’t say it.

She sighs. “Peter’s anklet is acting up. They’re trying to locate him, but Talia is being uncooperative. They’re probably going to arrest her for impeding their investigation.”

Handcuff-happy Sheriff. Good, Derek thinks vindictively. Mom deserves to have her misguided loyalty tested like that.

“Babe, please,” Benjamin says, and Derek refuses to react to the sudden appearance of Laura’s boyfriend. “He doesn’t need to know. He’s going through enough without making him worry about Peter too.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me right now,” Laura snaps. Derek stares at her. She never yells at Benjamin. “He deserves to know what’s going on so he can be ready for anything that might happen.”

“Might happen?” Benjamin repeats. “You’ve got him lying like an exposed turtle. How’s that supposed to prepare him?”

“Have you forgotten that his foot is broken?”

Derek curls around himself, letting Laura and Benjamin yell at each other with increasingly louder and virulent words. He thinks he hears something about Gerard Argent, and he blanks out in panic, breath rattling in his chest. Surely they caught him? What if they didn’t? What if he’s coming back for Derek? What if he’s going for Cora? Is that lone deputy enough to protect his sister?

He can’t breathe and it hurts and he wants to cry and _he cannot breathe_.

A hand drops onto his chest, patting calmly at him until he manages a weak breath. The next is easier, and the hand eases back as Derek’s vision swims into focus and he finds himself staring up at Mr. Votsky. Laura and Benjamin are nowhere in sight.

“There you are.” Mr. Votsky smiles. “Where did you go?”

“What?” Derek rasps. He looks around again, still surprised by the disappearance of Laura and Benjamin. He catches Mrs. Votsky peering worriedly at him from the kitchen doorway. “I didn’t miss anything, did I?” He doesn’t black out—unfortunately—always aware of his surroundings and what’s going on. Usually. It seems that if he panics enough all bets are off. It’s what happened with Mrs. McCall and the sexual assault kit, and he thinks it’s what happened now too.

He knew staying with his sister and her boyfriend would put unnecessary stress on their relationship. He knows he should toughen up, put himself into foster care. Who knows, maybe he and Isaac would be in the same home. They could band together to survive.

Maybe he could run away and keep running.

Dad has a sister that lives in New York. Maggie or Emily or Rachel. Derek met her once when he was five. Dad and she don’t get along because of Mom.

Surely, if he did run, no one would bother looking for him. Mom and Dad kept threatening to leave him alone if he wouldn’t stay home. Laura is too tired to keep following him, despite her ‘always’ promises.

Adults always lies. That’s the only ‘always’ Derek believes in.

Even if Aunt Maggie-Emily-Rachel doesn’t take him in, he can live on the streets of New York City. He could shovel snow in the winter and pick up cans to supplement his income. It wouldn’t be much different from mowing lawns or cleaning pools.

“Just Alice scaring off the bickering couple,” Mr. Votsky says, and Derek stares at him puzzled until he recalls his question. “How are you feeling right now?” Mr. Votsky continues.

Derek doesn’t understand the question. Is he supposed to answer with how he truly feels—crappy and on edge—or is it a mental health question that he’s supposed to answer with analogies?

“Derek, darling, just breathe,” Mrs. Votsky says. He hadn’t realized he was starting to gasp for breath again. She’s moved closer, and he eyes her warily. Don’t touch the wild animal. “We just want to know how you feel physically right now.”

Honesty, Derek decides. He’ll worry about it later. He’s too tired now. “I feel lost, like I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Like I’m the reason everything is all fucked up.” He picks up the crutches he dropped and swings his legs off the bed, ignoring the protest of his injured foot. He’s had enough of lying like ‘an exposed turtle.’

Mr. Votsky rocks back on his heels, letting Derek gain his feet for a wobbly moment before he manages to start hop-walking to the recliner Laura staked out all afternoon.

He sinks into it, and Mr. Votsky pulls the lever to bring out the footrest. Derek thanks him. Then, Mrs. Votsky sits in the recliner next to him while her husband perches on the armrest.

Derek clenches his hands on his knees. He mumbles, “I feel like I should have kept quiet and let them do what they wanted. It wasn’t hurting anyone except me, but I learned how to handle it.” He looks up and recoils at the anger he sees on the Votskys’ faces.

“You may have learned how to handle it,” Mr. Votsky says, voice low and shaking, “but you never should have had to.” He blinks, and Derek is surprised there are tears in his eyes. “You never should have been hurt that way.”

“Your parents should have protected you,” Mrs. Votsky chimes in. “I knew, when we took in Laura, that at least Talia was ruthless.”

“Indeed. It was all about her image. Do you know why we assumed guardianship of your sister, Derek?”

He shakes his head. He’s puzzled—he thought Laura sought and won emancipation.

Mrs. Votsky says, “Talia had Laura’s future all mapped out: where she would go to college; what master’s program she would complete; what career she would seek; what type of man she would marry and how many children she would have.”

“By the time Laura was in middle school, her life was so controlled that she wasn’t allowed to think for herself.” Mr. Votsky removes his glasses, peering through the lenses before cleaning them on his shirt. “She met Benjamin just before her freshman year and they became friends.”

Our Benjamin has always known he wanted to be a policeman,” Mrs. Votsky breaks in. “He’d already studied to take the entrance exam. He gave her options, and they chose emancipation.”

“But you said,” Derek starts.

“We did,” Mr. Votsky says. “It was more beneficial for Talia to play it off as a love story than admit to the public that her daughter wanted to leave the family. We gave her a way to save face while we helped Laura. Because she was fourteen, we couldn’t set her up on her own because Laura couldn’t support herself. Not as a fulltime student on a less than part time job. The labor laws, you understand.”

“With Laura’s blessing, we signed papers assuming her guardianship.”

“Do not be disheartened that no one helped you or your sister,” Mr. Votsky says.

Derek glares at him. “You helped Laura,” he says coldly. “Why couldn’t you help Cora and me too?”

“Because we could never definitively prove that you should be removed from your parents’ care,” Mrs. Votsky answers. “All those sleepovers your parents ‘made’ you have here were progress reports. A stipulation we put in the switch of guardianship.”

Mr. Votsky adds, “And we still missed a major piece of the puzzle.” Derek is tired of the back and forth. It would have been easier to have one Votsky talk to him instead of having to give attention to both of them.

“We never saw you with your uncle. We don’t know if it was your parents’ plan or not. All we knew is that you were upset—depressed even—but no one knew why.”

The bottom of Derek’s stomach drops. He thinks the room is spinning but he can’t be certain because he every time he tries to focus on something—the television right in front of him, a sun catcher sitting on the windowsill, a row of pictures lined up on a shelf above the kitchen doorway—the vertigo gets worse.

He feels like crying.

“If I’d told you…?” he whispers, blinking harshly. He doesn’t want to cry. Please don’t let him cry. “If I’d told you about P-Peter—would you have helped me?”

The Votskys share a look. “No, Derek, don’t do that,” Mrs. Votsky says. “Don’t play a what-if game with yourself. It wasn’t your responsibility to tell on Peter. It was his fault for hurting you. It was your parents’ fault for letting him back into your life and then lying to cover it up.”

Mr. Votsky leans forward, into Derek’s line of sight. He’s crying. Maybe it’ll be okay if Derek cries too? “We tried to find the right questions to ask you, but everything we tried just made you more withdrawn and upset. But that wasn’t your fault either.”

He doesn’t know what to think. He feels as if someone pushed him down a well but has offered him a rope with which to rescue himself. But, he doesn’t know what’s waiting at the top or even if he’s just going to be shoved right back into the hole he’ll climb out of. His skin itches with the uncertainty.

“It’s late, darling, and while you’ve been resting all day, you should rest some more. Both Daniel and I will be available if you want to talk.”

Mr. Votsky reaches out, his hand hovering over Derek’s arm. “We want what’s best for you,” he says. “Even if you don’t know what that is or when you can start accomplishing it, we’ll be right here for you.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, because it’s expected. Mr. and Mrs. Votsky exchange another look and then they leave, heading outside, presumably, to check on Laura and Benjamin. Good. They’ll be busy long enough for him to escape. He doesn’t know where his backpack is. Probably still at Laura’s apartment. Well, that’ll be his first stop then.

Now, he just needs to find some paper and a pen to leave a note so they won’t worry that Peter or Gerard got him.

~ * ~

The air outside is still too warm and Laura’s plan to just keep walking away from Benjamin fails almost immediately. Even though she’s wearing light colored shorts and a thin tank top, sweat springs from her pores. Benjamin, still dressed in his stiff uniform from work is red-faced and beaded with moisture.

Laura takes a long look at him, trying to find that spark of attraction that led to her following him instead of accepting the fate her mom—Talia—decided for her.

He’s not unattractive with his reddish-gold hair and clear green eyes. His weight fluctuates greatly, and this is one of those times with apple cheeks and a bit of a gut. Perfect for cuddling, especially because Laura is all elbows.

“Maybe she was right,” she muses. “Maybe we _were_ too young.”

Benjamin’s face goes even redder. “You’d still listen to what she says after everything she’s done? Your mother doesn’t deserve anything from you, least of all you thinking she’s right.”

“Just because she’s a horrible person, it doesn’t mean she’s wrong about everything.”

“And you think, with her track record, you should listen to anything she has to say? She told _you_ Derek is to blame for the abuse he’s suffered. That alone should kill any credibility she ever had.”

Benjamin’s reminder breaks over her like a sudden squall, and Laura just stands there gaping at him. She’d forgotten Talia had done that—said Derek was the reason Peter had ‘relapsed’ and sexually abused—raped—him.

“Are you really going to give your mother that much power over you?”

Laura narrows her eyes at him. “Shut up right now.” Something in her tone makes him obey, and his mouth snaps closed. Laura stalks away from him. It’s too hot to think and dragging her hands through her hair doesn’t help. She is too tight in her skin and pacing is only making the sensation worse. She wants to smash something—preferably Talia’s fucking face.

As she swings around to face Benjamin, maybe yell again, her phone, tucked into her back pocket, trills shrilly.

She fishes it out, staring at the unfamiliar number. After a moment of indecision, she answers it calm and cool.

“Hey,” the voice on the other end says, “it’s Cora. I’m calling because you told me too. It’s almost time for lights out so I can’t talk long.”

Laura sags in relief. At least one of her siblings is where they are supposed to be, doing what they’re supposed to be doing. Figures that it would be Cora. She’s always been less trouble than Derek. Not that Derek always being in trouble is his fault.

“—ran into Liam again,” Cora says, and Laura shakes herself. She needs to give Cora her undivided attention right now. Derek can wait.

Although, she thinks, she doesn’t recognize the boy’s name. She draws an absolute blank on his face and anything Cora may have told her about him. It’s not unlike Cora to not tell her things. _Or maybe_ , a tiny voice inside her head says, _you just weren’t listening to her._

“Oh?” she finally says, a beat too late, if Cora’s resounding silence is any indication. “And?” she prompts.

“He wants to date me.”

“But you’re eleven!” Honestly, Laura isn’t sure why she’s objecting. Hell, she had her first kiss when she was ten years old.

“That’s what I said,” Cora says, “and he’s in Willow Unit, so we won’t be spending as much time together this year. I think he might miss me.”

“Well, as long as you don’t do anything inappropriate.” Laura sighs. By the time she was eleven, she knew better than to tell Talia or James about any…extracurricular activities she participated in. She still remembers the taste of Janey Johnson’s chapped lips on hers under the old middle school’s bleachers.

“Inappropriate,” Cora says flatly. “What could I possibly do that’s inappropriate.” Cora is blunt—if she started having sex, Laura’s sure she would hear about it in biological terms, and suddenly, she’s less worried about her sister and her maybe-boyfriend.

“Just don’t do anything rash and always let Deputy Graeme know if you’re going to deviate from your schedule.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s time for lights out. I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye,” Laura says. “I love you.”

Cora doesn’t respond before she hangs up. When Laura looks up from putting her phone back in its pocket, she notices Alice and Daniel have joined her and Benjamin outside. A quick glance around reveals no Derek.

“Where is he?” she asks. She won’t say she’s nervous, but she really doesn’t appreciate her brother being left alone right now. Rationally, she knows the Argents are still in jail, but she’s worried about Peter and his malfunctioning ankle monitor.

“Inside resting,” Daniel says. He looks a bit troubled. “I don’t think he’s truly safe right now.”

Laura growls. “So why did you leave him alone right now?” She stomps past the three of them, heading for the house. Alice grabs her arm.

“There is a protective detail surveying both our house and your parents’ house. Derek isn’t in danger from them.”

“He’s in danger because of himself,” Daniel explains. “After speaking with him, I believe he may be severely depressed.”

“And you think it will manifest in suicide?” Laura accuses. Alice and Daniel nod. She tries to ignore the way her stomach flips at the thought. The phone call to Lydia is still fresh in her mind. What if he really does feel suicidal? Would he follow through with his threat to not tell her if he is?

“So, you left him alone,” she says again.

“He was resting,” Daniel says. “We discussed some things and it’s obvious he has a lot of unresolved anger.”

Laura scoffs. She already knew that. She doesn’t need anyone to tell her that. Especially not someone so irresponsible as to leave her brother all alone when they suspect he might be suicidal.

She throws open the door and storms into the house only to stop short when she can’t immediately locate Derek. He isn’t in the living room or the kitchen and she’s already peering into the empty science room when the Votskys catch up to her.

“Where is he?” she demands, desperate. Each of them looks to her in confusion and then panic. “He’s not here! Where did he go?”

She heads for the bathroom and finds a note taped to the door. She tears it free and stumbles to one of the recliners, eyes scanning the paper.

She swears it says something about not worrying because he’s removing the burden—but the words blur and don’t make sense. Did Derek run away?

Why?

And where would he go?

She looks up with tear-filled eyes. “Where is he?” she whispers.

~ * ~

It feels like his head has just hit the pillow when John’s phone goes off under his ear. He startles upright, and Claudia lifts with him, her sleepy, “Whosit?” making him feel a little bad that he can’t just have his phone on the vibrate setting. He’d never hear it then, he knows from experience.

John grabs the phone, squinting into the bright display to check the number. “It’s Melissa,” he tells Claudia. She grunts unintelligibly, already down again, turning over to go back to sleep.

He answers, as quietly as he can.

He cannot understand what Melissa is saying. It takes her repeating at least twice before the words, “Scott’s dead,” penetrate his still-addled brain.

The phone slips through his numb fingers and it clatters across the floor. Claudia sits up again. “What happened?” she demands. “What’s going on?”

John holds up a finger, not that she can see it, and retrieves his phone.

“Are you alone right now?” he asks Melissa.

“No,” she says thickly, like she’s been crying. And no wonder. Her son. John’s heart beats in pain. “Rafael is here with me. We’ve got to go identify the body, but John, I just know it’s Scott. He’s been gone all afternoon. He’d said he was going to a friend’s house. I assumed he meant Stiles.”

“Shit,” John breathes. “Stiles. I have to tell Stiles.”

“Tell Stiles what?” Claudia tugs at his arm. He turns to her, reaching out to flip on the lamp on his side of the bed. She stares at him, eyes mostly squeezed shut.

“Scott,” John says, on the other end of the phone, Melissa bursts into renewed tears. He holds the phone against his chest to block the sound. “Scott is dead. Melissa and Rafael got a call from the morgue to go identify his body.”

“Scott is dead?” Claudia repeats numbly. She pales. “Sweet Scott? My cook Scott? Scott is gone?”

“Yeah. I should go with them. Something like this isn’t easy. They’ll need all the support they can get.”

“Wait, Rafael is in town? Why?”

“He’s the agent in charge of the investigation of Gerard Argent.”

“John, how did Scott die?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping to find out at the morgue.” He lifts the phone to his ear again. “Melissa, are you still there?”

“John,” a new voice says. Rafael McCall. “Look, we’re going to the county morgue in half an hour. Meet us there?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Do you know anything about this?”

Rafael sighs. John imagines him running a hand over his face. He wonders if Rafael will break down too. He wonders if he’d be strong enough to offer the man support.

“They suspect homicide. They think Argent took a hit out on him. Look, you know we can’t work this case anymore. It’s too personal.”

“The case should be your last worry. Take care of Melissa, Rafael. If I find one bruise on her…” he lets the threat trail away, but he can hear the sharp intake of breath on the other end. “I’ll meet you at the morgue. I’ve got to find a way to tell my son that his best friend is gone.” Just like that, John feels the tears burning his eyes. Scott is—was—a good kid. He didn’t deserve this.

How is he supposed to tell Stiles?

“Thank you,” Rafael says, quietly, and the line disconnects.

“I can’t believe that,” Claudia says, quietly. “John, tell me they’re lying, that they’re just playing a prank?”

John shakes his head. He can’t even open his mouth to tell her he won’t lie. Scott’s gone. Scott McCall is gone. He can’t remember the last time he talked to the kid. Was it on the way to the hospital on Tuesday? It’s Friday, well, Saturday, but that’s still just a few days ago. Scott was in his patrol car just a few days ago.

“John, he’s not dead. Tell me he isn’t dead!” Claudia demands, grabbing his arm. John shakes her off.

“I need to get dressed.” He presses a dry kiss to her forehead, but she pushes him away.

“This is a bad dream,” she mutters. “I’m going back to sleep and when I wake up, that boy better be standing in front of me with his parents.”

“Claudia, don’t do this. Don’t hurt them more just because it’s hard to accept that someone we watched grow up, hell we helped raise, is dead.”

She lies down and pulls the cover over her head. John turns off the light and makes his way downstairs.

He sits down to put on his shoes and freezes. Scott is dead. Killed by orders of Argent. What if Argent comes after Stiles next? Now he has to tell his son that his best friend is dead and that he might be in danger too?

If he weren’t the sheriff of Beacon County, he’d go hide with Claudia, pray and hope that this is all some bad dream or a misguided prank. And maybe ask God to bring back Scott.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be busy the next three weekends, so I'm posting two chapters this weekend. Here's the first!
> 
> Thanks to all who read, kudos, bookmark, and subscribe and double thanks to those that comment.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com), if interested.
> 
> Also, if you think anything needs to be tagged or you find a continuity issue, let me know. Thanks again!


	17. Sixteen

~ * ~

Stiles isn’t sleeping when his phone goes off at 1:00 a.m. He’s busy watching psychologists talk about ‘true suicidal tendencies’ versus ‘suicidal ideologists.’ According to one of the leading researchers, Derek’s behavior is highly suspect of someone who is seeking attention and using all the wrong methods to get it.

He thinks about letting the call go to voicemail, but he catches sight of the screen as it lights up in his darkened bedroom, and he swears it says Laura Hale is calling.

He pauses his video and grabs his phone, jabbing the ‘send’ button and pulling it up to his ear.

“Hello?” he says into the crackling void.

“Hello? Stiles?” That’s definitely Laura. It sounds like she’s been crying.

“Yes, this is he,” Stiles answers.

“Have you seen Derek at all?”

“Not since I dropped him at Dr. Deaton’s on Thursday. Why? What’s going on?”

Laura sobs once. “He ran away. We’ve looked everywhere, and he isn’t there—at the school, at my apartment. I’m calling his friends now to see if they’ve found him.”

“Let me go talk to my dad. He might have a better idea of where a runaway would go.”

“Thank you.”

Laura hangs up, and Stiles leans back in his chair to stare at his dark ceiling. Where _would_ Derek Hale run to?

He sighs. Apparently, talking to a professional hasn’t helped Derek at all. Stiles feels a stab of anger. He thinks Derek is being selfish. Why run unless he’s not getting the attention or sensationalism he’s seeking?

The first clue Stiles should have had was when Derek called Lydia because he was ‘having suicidal ideations.’ He sighs again. It’s shitty what Derek has gone through with Peter and Kate, but that doesn’t give him the right to manipulate the people who care about him.

Still, he promised to talk to his dad. He’ll do it for Laura.

Stiles wakes his computer up so that he can bookmark his research before powering it down. Then, he stands and stretches. He grabs his phone and plugs it into its charger, leaving it dangling above his bed.

In the hall, he tiptoes toward his parents’ room. Mom’s a light sleeper and Dad’s a heavy one, so waking Dad without waking Mom is an exercise in balance. He has a hand on the knob when he hears the couch creak downstairs.

Could be an invader, he thinks. But, who in their right mind would rob the Sheriff? Still, he slowly opens the door, peering into the dark until he can make out one bump on the bed. It’s on Mom’s side, so the noise downstairs can be attributed to Dad and not some lump-headed would-be thief.

Great.

Stiles shuts the door and carefully climbs down the steps. He finds Dad perched on the edge of the couch, sitting in the dark. Light from Dad’s phone on the cushion next to him throws everything into sharp relief. Dad has his uniform shirt on but unbuttoned. His belt and shoelaces are also undone.

“Dad?” Stiles whispers, waving his hand in front of Dad’s eyes, surprised when he doesn’t react. The phone goes dark, and then there is only the weak, orange light from the streetlight outside. It’s not enough to see by, so Stiles flips on the overhead.

Dad jumps to his feet and flails about until he catches sight of Stiles doubled over and laughing.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles. He straightens his shirt, buttoning it and tucking it in. Then, he fastens his belt and ties his shoes. “Come, sit,” he says once he’s presentable. “I need to tell you something important.”

Obediently, Stiles sits. He grabs Dad’s phone to play with while he waits for his dad to choose his words.

“Son,” Dad says, and holy shit, are those tears? Stiles stares at him. The last time Dad cried in front of him was when they found out Grandma Wójcik had died.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Stiles scrambles to his feet, Dad’s forgotten phone hitting the floor and skittering away. “Dad?” he asks around a lump in his throat.

“Sit,” Dad says firmly. He presses Stiles back down and sits next to him. “Mieczyslaw,” he says, and that’s Stiles’ real name. Someone definitely died. He doesn’t think his grandpa on his dad’s side would get this serious of a face or any tears either. “Scott’s dead.”

For a long moment the world tilts sideways, and Stiles thinks he can hear the ocean rumbling in his ears. Scott? Dead? Those words don’t compute.

He wants to laugh, to yell at his dad that it isn’t funny, but his stomach hurts, and it feels like the lump in his throat is getting bigger, and the world keeps swinging back and forth on a broken axis.

Scott—his best friend in the whole world Scott?—Scott’s dead?

“How?” he manages to croak. Dad shakes his head. “Goddamn it, Dad! How?! How did Scott die?” Now Stiles is crying too, but he doesn’t give a crap. Scott is Stiles’ other half, the brother he never had, the person he doesn’t have to wonder if he likes him. And now he’s gone?

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” Dad says, but he sounds mad, so Stiles swallows his retort. Dad pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Apparently,” he says quietly, “Gerard Argent called in a hit on the family of the agent in charge of the investigation.”

“Rafael McCall,” Stiles breathes. “He’s the agent in charge?”

“Yes, Rafael McCall is somehow the man we all answer to. If he had bothered to share the information the FBI has on Argent, we would have been able to include Scott in our protective detail arrangement. Instead, McCall, and probably half the force, including me, is going to be benched because of personal ties to the victim.”

“Scott’s killer gets to go free?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “What about justice?”

“That’s not how it works,” Dad says sadly. “The best we can do is prove Argent had something to do with it.” He puts an arm around Stiles and squeezes. “I know it’s hard and you want vengeance, but we have to let the authorities do their job.”

Stiles wipes at his eyes, sniffling. “How’s Mrs. McCall holding up?” He thinks of the crime shows his dad scoffs at. “Did she have to identify the body?”

“Actually, she’s going in to do that now, and I promised to be there too,” Dad says. “They’re having both Melissa and Rafael look at the body.”

Stiles studies him as he goes to his office to retrieve his service weapon and backup pistol.

“So, Asshole McDouchebag is sticking around?”

“Mieczyslaw!” Dad scolds. “You may not like the man—hell, _I_ don’t like the man—but he just lost his son. Have some Goddamn respect.”

“You said it yourself: if McCall had shared his organization’s insights on Argent’s M.O., you could have protected Scott. He’s just as much to blame!”

“Stiles,” Dad says, and no. Just no. Stiles jumps to his feet and runs. He slams his door, uncaring if he just woke his mother, and throws himself onto his bed. He covers his head with his pillow. Hot tears burn his eyes and his chest aches from the force of his sobs.

How is he supposed to live now that Scott is gone? Who is he supposed to rib and mess with and play pranks on and with? Who is going to call him on his bullshit?

Scott was supposed to be there forever. They were going to get married on the same day. Their kids were going to be born the same year. They were going to live next door to each other. And now? Now, Stiles is gasping wetly, buried under his pillow while Scott is lying in the morgue waiting for some coroner to cut him open.

Stiles imagines a bloody Scott curled on a cold slab. That’s not _his_ Scott. _His_ Scott is hiding in the old tree house Dad built them before he was Sheriff, waiting until the threat of Gerard Argent is gone.

And who brought that threat to Beacon Hills?

Derek Hale, that’s who.

If Derek hadn’t tattled on Kate Argent, Scott would still be alive.

For a moment, Stiles entertains the idea of finding Derek and smashing his head in, of making him dead like Scott is. For that moment, Stiles wishes Derek had committed suicide instead of calling Lydia for help.

The next moment, he goes cold. It isn’t Derek’s fault that Gerard Argent had Scott killed. Derek is a victim of Kate. If Stiles should be mad at someone, it should be Kate or Gerard or the hit man Gerard hired.

It is still frighteningly easy to blame Derek.

Stiles pops his head out from under his pillow and dries his face. He’ll worry about everything after he sees Scott’s body for himself. Maybe he’ll be able to bury his anger toward Derek. And maybe he’ll help Laura look for her brother. Shit! He was supposed to tell Dad about that—well, it’ll keep. There’s nowhere for Derek to go in Beacon Hills that he can’t be found.

Stiles lets himself relax enough to drift off, dreaming about Scott dancing just out of reach.

~ * ~

Beacon Hills has one bus station. And it’s not open this late at night. However, a few years ago, the Walshes, who own it, installed an LED display board showing prices for trips. Redding, where there’s an airport, is only a five-dollar fare while nonstop to New York is two-hundred-and-fifty dollars. Derek has neither.

What he does have is his backpack and bicycle. For a crime scene, Laura’s apartment wasn’t guarded at all. He slipped in, grabbed his bag from the bedroom, and slipped out again. His bicycle was still at the school, chained to the rack out front.

So, he’s got his clothes and a mode of transportation and no money. Overall, he’s not too bad off.

He can go back to Mom and Dad’s to get his wagon and tools, and if he can use the mower as a walker, he should be able to mow enough lawns to get the bus fare he needs.

Riding is painful, but as long as he remembers to keep his leg extended and off the pedal, it seems to work well enough. He has six miles to ride. He knows he’s too tired to do it now. Although, cover of darkness is best.

He’ll have to hole up somewhere to rest, but where?

The apartment is probably the first place Laura will look, and he’s lucky he didn’t encounter her the first time. It’s not worth the risk. The school is possibly a good bet, except since Coach Lahey’s arrest there will probably be eyes on it, looking for evidence that he abused Isaac on campus. He is less surprised to have seen no one when he collected his bicycle.

Derek sighs. There’s nowhere safe he can go to hide while he waits for tomorrow night.

Unless…

There’s a dilapidated tree house on the back of the Sheriff’s property. Occasionally, when it’s too hot to be out in the sun, he would lay down in the meager shade, drink some water, and doze fitfully until his watch beeped to let him know to haul ass to his next lawn or pool job.

Without having to give ninety percent of his earnings to Mom and Dad, he might even have enough money for a plane ticket. He definitely won’t have to work as hard for it either.

He just needs to find his aunt’s address. He remembers the taxi, and the way Mom held him on her lap as he stared wide-eyed at the tall, bright buildings. She must have been pregnant with Cora then because he remembers a tall lady—Aunt Emily?—staring down at him and saying, “Another one? Already?”

But, Derek was three-going-on-four then, and it’s a distant memory, he doesn’t know if Emily has a braid or even if her hair is brown like Dad’s. He doesn’t know what he’s made up about her and what’s true.

Derek sighs, scrubbing at his face. It’s late. He needs to find shelter. The tree house is closest. In fact, all he has to do is pedal slowly with one foot and steer down two alleys until he comes out on the street behind the Sheriff’s house. He hides his bike and crutches in the bushes. It won’t do to have dodged Laura and the Votskys all night only for the Sheriff to find him come first light.

Getting into the tree house is a different kind of pain. Derek can’t put any weight on his foot without whimpering, and it is physically exhausting to grip the planks nailed to the trunk, haul himself up enough to plant his left foot on a plank and leverage up to a new grip.

He’s panting and sweating by the time he ascends into the tree house proper.

It’s small, obviously built for a five year old instead of a fifteen year old. There isn’t a door, for which Derek is marginally thankful. He does not know how he would have managed to climb into the structure if his way had been blocked. A window looks east and by the west wall, there is a rolled up blanket.

He unrolls it, stifling a sneeze at the dust kicked up. It’s musty and dank, but it’ll have to do. He shrugs off his backpack and digs out a t-shirt to use as a pillow and his jacket. He curls up on the blanket, trying not to jar his foot.

Derek presses his face into his t-shirt, even though it still reeks of Peter’s cologne, and drapes his jacket over his torso.

He’s almost too tired to sleep, but he knows if he can just rest, he’ll have enough energy to ride out to his parents’ place to get his wagon and supplies. And then he only needs to approach his lawn regulars, all in one day, and then clean the pool regulars the day after and he’ll have his bus fare. Plus, he can use an extra day to mow the lawns of his regular senior citizens and earn a bit of a buffer for food and gas. That is, if none of his regulars are like the couple from _Luana’s_ and refuse his offer because they’d rather believe some made up crap about him.

Derek decides that he can only try. He’ll either fail or succeed, but he’ll never forgive himself if he doesn’t make the effort.

He relaxes, loosening his limbs and blinking slowly until he lulls himself into a dreamless sleep.

~ * ~

Melissa puts on another pot of coffee. At the kitchen table, staring glassy-eyed at the stack of pictures of their son she pulled from her photo albums, Rafael nurses a still-full mug from the first pot she made.

Since he came back from ass-end California, he hasn’t said anything. He won’t even look at her,

Well, two can play that game. Except, without Scott to trade commiserating glances, the silence weighs on her, and she finds herself filling it with dozens of inane stories about their son.

And Rafael does not respond.

Melissa is infuriated. She can’t focus—too much caffeine—and there is nothing to do because every time she starts nervously cleaning anything, Rafael clears his throat pointedly. She’s supposed to be grieving, and she is, but grieving is doesn’t mean sitting at her table, not drinking her coffee, and generally looking like someone ripped her heart out, like Rafael.

Everyone grieves differently. As a nurse, Melissa has seen this first hand.

She’s seen young men and women cry for their partners, throw things, breakdown and blame God for His heavy hand. She has seen children asking for their parents long after a sheet has been pulled over their faces. She’s seen an elderly woman keep knitting while her husband of fifty years took his last breath. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, a husband who sank to the floor in relief and cried when his wife passed on.

Melissa can damn well clean if she fucking wants to. Let Rafael snap out of his fugue if he wants her to stop.

It’ll be good for appearances if they yell at each other. Who knows, maybe they really would fight if, God forbid, Scott were truly dead.

She starts rattling dishes. She should start with Scott’s room. It was a mess in there the last time she mustered enough courage to peer into her puberty-stricken son’s domain. Dishes and laundry and at least a few inches of crumpled tissues all over the floor. But, she can’t quite climb the stairs yet. Scott is supposed to be home soon anyway. She’ll just make him clean it when she sees him again.

And still, Rafael ignores her.

“I’m thinking of selling the house,” she says. She isn’t, but maybe it will jar her ex-husband into finally reacting more than his stupid throat-clearing. “I’ll put the money into a rainy day fund. Maybe get a cat or two. Quit my job and move to Florida. I hear the orange groves are hiring right now. Maybe I can—”

“Do you ever just shut up!” Rafael bursts out, Bingo, thinks Melissa.

“What?” she taunts. “Don’t like those plans? Too bad. You have up your right to reason with me the day you struck Scott.”

“I never,” Rafael says. His shoulders slump, and his posture screams defeat. Melissa doesn’t care.

“I came home to you passed out on the couch while Scott was upstairs packing his backpack, your fucking handprint on his cheek.” She slams a hand down on the counter and spins around to glare at the cowardly man cringing at her table. “You never, what, hit him? Yes, you fucking did.”

Rafael shakes his head. “I don’t remember,” he murmurs.

“Of course you don’t,” Melissa says. “You were fucking lit. Too drunk to keep control of your actions. It’s one thing when you came after me. I could fight back.” She swallows a lump in her throat. She never fought back, bargaining with herself and him that if she let him beat her, he wouldn’t touch her son. “Scott was eight years old.”

“What do you want from me?” he demands. “I’m sorry! Is that it? An apology? I’m sorry, so fucking sorry that I was that man. I’ve been sober for five years. And you had that damn DCS agent following me around whenever I spent time with Scott.”

“You don’t remember striking Scott,” Melissa says, “but do you remember promising me, after the first time you left a bruise, that you wouldn’t ever hit me again? The next night, after a long shift, I came home to burned dinner and a fist because you were ‘frustrated.’ You being sober now is no consolation to me now. Not when you’ve proven I can’t ever trust you.”

“But did you really have to send DCS after me? I couldn’t even hug Scott without some bitch forcing us apart.”

“That ‘bitch’ was protecting your son. More than you ever did.”

Rafael falls silent, staring down at the mug of cold coffee. She wonders if he will ever see himself as more than a victim. It’s unlikely. They’ve been divorced for six years and he’s been sober for five, and he hasn’t made amends. He keeps forcing, dropping back into her life like a boomerang, and wrenching Scott from her.

After his visits, Scott is always sullen and won’t speak to her. It takes time to pry from him that he doesn’t like his father, that he feels wronged by him.

Thankfully, Scott doesn’t actually remember being struck by Rafael, but Melissa still refuses to trust him.

She can’t get the image of her eight year old son crying as he crams socks and underwear into his school bag while his father snores drunkenly on the couch downstairs.

That night, she’d repacked Scott’s backpack and sent him to the Stilinskis while she worked with John’s friend Jan Roberts to draw up her divorce papers.

No, the anger and hatred she feels for him is not going to dissipate any time soon. And if Rafael thinks he’s entitled to her forgiveness, then he’s got a lot of learning left to do.

Finally, Rafael takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing at it. Melissa grabs the mug and drains it down the sink.

“We need to go now,” she says coldly. “They’re waiting on us to identify the body. And where did you get one of those, eh?”

“I’ll drive,” Rafael says instead of answering her.

“You’ll walk first,” Melissa says, rattling her keys. “Let’s go.”

Surprisingly, or rather, unsurprisingly, Rafael stays silent.

Melissa hates him a little more.

~ * ~

For his late start, John still arrives at the morgue before Melissa and Rafael, and he sits on one of the ass-numbing chairs, staring at a tiny discolored dot on the wall while Dr. Alita Bocelli, a recent transplant to Beacon Hills, and the new county coroner, hovers. Every time she initiates small talk, her mousy little voice grating on his worn nerves, he grunts and she goes quiet again.

After nearly ten minutes of this, the McCalls come in, Melissa leading Rafael. She looks pissed, which John understands; her son has just been found murdered. John doesn’t know what he would do in her shoes.

“Mrs. McCall,” Bocelli greets, her voice still timid.

“Alita,” Melissa returns. “This is my ex-husband, Rafael McCall.”

“Hello,” Bocelli says, only to receive a grunt from Rafael. She looks nervously to Melissa. “Um,” she stutters. “Normally, I would have you look at the face or an identifying feature on the body, but—well, there is no body.” She flinches, as if she expects to be hit.

The room is silent for two long minutes, each of them staring at the petite doctor wringing her hands together.

Finally, John stands up. “What do you mean, ‘there is no body’?” he asks. Bocelli turns to him and stares with large doe eyes.

“There was a body,” she says. “The FBI brought it in. I started processing it, and I got called away—for only half an hour. When I returned, there was no body.”

Worryingly, Melissa is turning red and Rafael is turning white. John ushers them to sit while Bocelli scurries off for some water while John forces Rafael’s head between his knees.

When Bocelli comes back, skidding over the tiles, a plastic canteen held high above her head, John asks her, “Could someone have put the body away while you were occupied?”

She shakes her head. “I work alone,” she explains. John recalls being told, by Melissa or one of the deputies, that the old coroner had retired after Bocelli showed up, leaving her to be a staff of one—Beacon Hills doesn’t usually have a lot of deaths. “Someone took the body. I already called the dispatcher.” She turns to Melissa, tears in her eyes and sounding like she’s about to cry when she says, “I’m so sorry.”

Melissa mutters something under her breath from behind the canteen and then lurches to her feet to stumble away. Rafael watches her go. The most interaction they’ve had from him tonight, John thinks.

He shrugs it off and wraps an arm around the now-sobbing coroner, leading her to another row of chairs. Bocelli sinks into the chair, hands pressed to her face while John pats awkwardly at her back.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Rafael says. “I really don’t. I’m sorry.” He runs after Melissa, the double doors thumping shut behind him.

John is left kneeling in front of Bocelli in the middle of the morgue’s viewing opera, trying to comfort a crying person. He curses both McCalls silently.

He sighs softly, moving to sit next to Bocelli. “Walk me through the body’s arrival and disappearance with as much detail as you can remember,” he says.

Bocelli nods, sniffling into a large cloth handkerchief she pulls out from her pants pocket. She draws in a deep breath and squares her shoulders.

“I received the call that they found a body about two hours ago, and that it was a juvenile, Scott McCall. When I arrived here, fifteen minutes after that, the body was just being wheeled in.”

“Odd,” John murmurs. In his limited experience of responding to scenes with bodies, the coroner is the one to respond to the scene for collection.

“I suited up and started the autopsy. I turned on my voice recorder and took pictures with the digital camera. I noted that the body had two puncture wounds consistent with close range gunshots to the sternum. Cause of death was likely exsanguination due to the chest wounds. I was in the middle of switching to collecting physical evidence when a man, tall, brown hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven, wearing a set of surgical scrubs and booties, stumbled down here.

“I thought he was drunk or maybe high on something. I mean, we’re in the basement of a hospital, after all.”

“Of course.”

“Well, this late, there’s no one else here, so I had to go upstairs to find a security guard. By the time I found one willing to help me, and we had corralled the man, the body, my camera, and the voice recorder were all missing.”

“So that man was down here for how long while you searched for a security guard?”

“Maybe five minutes. It felt longer. I called the Sheriff’s Department immediately, and I assumed when you were here that you were responding.”

John flushes guiltily, realizing that what he took to be small talk was probably Bocelli working up the courage to talk to him about the missing body.

“And, one more thing, Sheriff,” she says. “I’m not so sure the body was really Scott McCall’s.”

He startles. “Why do you think that?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “I worked on a lot of bodies during my tours in Iraq. Most of them juvenile or younger. The body I was examining was not that of a fourteen year old boy, but that of a twenty year old man. And,” she continues, “although I’ve never met him, doesn’t Scott have black hair like his parents?” John nods. “The body had brown hair.”

“You took pictures, you said,” John says, ignoring the crushing feeling of something growing in his chest. He’ll deal with implications later. Facts now. “Did you happen to see his right hand?”

“Yes,” Bocelli confirms. “There was nothing on it. Should there have been something?”

“Scott recently burned his hand at his job. He would have had either bandages or blisters or something.”

Bocelli looks thoughtful. “It was wrapped in one of those beige bandage things—”

“Elastic bandage wraps,” John supplies. “I’m familiar.”

“—but there was no discernible reason for the wrap unless the muscles were strained.”

“Okay, Dr. Bocelli,” John says, “here’s what we’re going to do: I’m going to call in the deputies to collect evidence from your morgue. They’re going to want to interview you again. Absolutely everything you can remember is helpful. We’ll find that missing body, and we’ll find Scott McCall too. Thank you so much.” He shakes her hand, unsurprised when she wraps her arms around him and hugs him briefly. “I’ll talk to Melissa and Rafael too.”

“Thank you,” she says. She stands up and walks to the elevator. “Coming, Sheriff?”

John glances around the room one last time, imagining the man distracting the coroner just to move a body that isn’t Scott’s, which brings up the question: why were the McCalls told it was Scott?

He thinks of Melissa’s angry face and Rafael’s ill pallor. They have a lot of explaining to do.

“Yes, I’m coming,” he says to Bocelli. He certainly can’t just sit around now.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter for this weekend!
> 
> Again, if anything stands out as needing a tag or being a continuity error, please let me know. Thanks!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks to all who read, kudos, bookmark, and subscribe. And double thanks to those that comment.


	18. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Peter happens. End notes for more thorough spoilers.

~ * ~

Laura jerks awake when Benjamin brakes sharply. They’ve been driving all night, looking for Derek, and the sunrise started coming up almost an hour ago. It’s almost fully up now, and she blinks into the bright light while Benjamin rubs at his eyes. They’re parked in front of his parents’ house.

“Sorry,” he mumbles through a yawn. “I need to get some sleep before my shift starts.” The clock on the dash reads 6:50. His shift starts at 8:00. “I’ll see if I can’t get some of the other deputies to help look today.”

“I had Stiles ask his father for help a few hours ago,” Laura remembers. “I wonder why we haven’t seen more of a response.” If anything, it’s been lackluster. They haven’t even run into any patrol cars.

“I don’t know, babe. I can ask when I see him, if you want me to?”

It takes a moment for Laura to make her decision, too tired to process Benjamin’s words immediately. “Yes. I want you to ask him why Derek is suddenly so unimportant to the Sheriff’s Department after they allocated funds for a protective detail for him.”

Benjamin shrugs, and Laura swallows her annoyance at him. Their argument was interrupted but that doesn’t mean it won’t resurface as soon as they have Derek back. It might not even wait that long. She wonders if they truly were too young, but she doesn’t want to ask Benjamin again, afraid that he’ll just throw mud at Talia again by saying that everything she says or does is wrong by default.

Sitting in the car, while nice, is not going to be restful, especially when the sun begins heating the interior, so they head inside, shuffling up the walk, supporting each other.

Benjamin heads to the bathroom while Laura strips out of her jeans and t-shirt. By the time Benjamin joins her on their mattress, she’s already half-asleep, face pressed into the pillow, arms wrapped around it. He strokes one hand down her back and then curls up on his half, facing her, hands tucked under his chin.

He starts snoring lightly, which is when he’s mostly asleep but still aware enough to answer questions. Laura has used this state to figure out birthday and Christmas gifts, but she’s not feeling up to it, and what she really wants to know, he can’t answer. He wouldn’t have spent the last eight hours searching with her if he knew where Derek was going.

She blinks, blinks again, slowing the natural opening of her eyes. But, right when she’s about to tip into sleep, Alice stoops down and presses a cool hand to her head. She wakes up enough to focus on her face.

“I’m going down to the Sheriff’s Station to file a missing person’s report. Daniel’s sleeping in the hammock on the porch. I’ll wake you and him when I get back.”

Laura nods her understanding, letting her head drop back to the pillow. She doesn’t expect to sleep long—she never sleeps through Benjamin’s alarm—but she knows she needs to rest too.

Alice will wake her if she drifts off after Benjamin leaves for work. And, really, there’s nothing more she can do until Alice comes back. If Derek doesn’t want to be found, if he’s even still in Beacon Hills, then he won’t. She’s had enough experience with Talia calling her when Derek takes off that she knows his usual hangouts and he wasn’t in any of them.

The best thing Laura can do now is get some rest so she has enough energy to decipher any clues he leaves behind.

She settles and breathes deeply through her nose. Sleep. Sleep...Asleep.

~ * ~

John is running on two hours of sleep and three cups of coffee. His heart feels like it’s about to pound out of his chest and his hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s not a fun sensation.

But, he can’t go home sick. There’s too much crap going on. So much for hoping for a quiet weekend.

Neither Melissa nor Rafael is responding to his calls. He isn’t certain what to make of it.

Well, he is out of coffee, so he might as well use the excuse of a fourth cup to check on the deputies’ progress. Maybe one of them has located the body double from the morgue. Poor Dr. Bocelli has already given her statement, and Vasquez is running down leads while Dames and Henderson are still sorting through and processing evidence from the morgue.

On his way to the probably empty communal coffee pot, he’s stopped by Alice Votsky. He thinks of her fondly. He did have to help a bunch of eleven year olds find a lizard for her. And, of course, she’s Deputy Votsky’s mother.

Although, right now, she looks haggard, like she hasn’t slept recently. He wonders if he looks as bad and decides to forgo his cup of coffee. The mild pain from his still-wildly beating heart might influence that decision a bit more than he wants to admit.

“Sheriff,” Alice says. “A moment?”

John takes in her frazzled appearance. Her haphazard outfit of an orange fluorescent t-shirt, grass-stained and ripped khaki shorts with mismatched shoes and no socks, her frizzy hair escaping a thin ponytail holder, her unsmiling face.

She reminds him of Talia Hale coming to him last Wednesday to report Derek’s running away.

His stomach sinks suddenly, and he thinks he might just throw up the coffee he’s already consumed.

“My office?” he suggests weakly. She agrees, so he heads back to his office, sinking gratefully into his chair while she examines the room with a critical eye. Alice plucks something from a stack of papers on top of the file cabinet he keeps by the door.

“What I can do for you, Mrs. Votsky?” It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her about her son. Deputy Votsky is supposed to come in for shift change at 8:00, which, according to John’s watch, is a little less than an hour from now.

Alice shakes the page she picked up. “I need to file a missing person’s report,” she says softly, holding it out to John.

He takes it, staring at the unsmiling face of Derek Hale. Figures that it would be that boy, he thinks distantly, trying to ignore the buzzing in his ears. Nothing is ever easy with him.

His first instinct is to call Argent’s handler, to see if the geriatric bastard is still where they expect him to be.

Alice unfolds another sheet of paper she pulls from her pocket, dropping it on John’s desk. He stares at the neat handwriting, thinking no teen naturally has that precise of lettering.

“The Hales made sure their children had the most regimented education they could,” Alice explains when she notices what John is staring at. “Each of the children was forced to take etiquette classes, including calligraphy. Of course, this was in addition to their regular public schooling and other extracurricular activities Talia and James deemed necessary.”

“Did Derek run away again?” John asks. The note in his hand spells it out clearly, but he still wants to hear Alice’s thoughts.

“Are you going to look for him at all?” she counters. “If I say yes, Derek ran away, is that going to influence whether or not you’re going to help us?”

John sighs. “I can only allot so many resources to looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. If we determine he has left Beacon County, then there will be nothing we can do aside from sending out an APB.”

He pulls out a plastic envelope from the bottom drawer of the desk and places Derek’s note inside, initialing and printing the date on the seal. “I promise that we will look for Derek Hale to the best of our ability and resources.”

Alice nods sharply. “I suppose that will have to do. Now, about that report I need to file?”

“Speak with Deputy Kincaid, he’ll get you sorted.” John directs her to Kincaid’s desk. With Tara on vacation, the deputies are taking turns pulling doubles—one shift on patrol, one shift on desk duty. Tonight is Kincaid’s draw. Alice thanks him.

John goes back to his chair and studies the note again. He wonders exactly what was going through Derek’s head that he would run away again so soon after his last failed attempt. The word ‘burden’ stands out, and John taps it. Derek wanted to remove the burden his presence placed on his sister. But, all he’s done so far is increase her worry.

Where is Laura, by the way? John glances up to study the bullpen. Nope. No lithe dancer gal sitting next to her almost-mother-in-law while she fills out the report. Shouldn’t Laura be the one here instead of Alice?

John pats his roiling stomach, promising to rest it as soon as possible. For now, he needs to make sure his deputy is helping Alice to the best of his ability. Far be it from John to deny his citizens his civic duty.

When he gets to Kincaid’s desk, Alice is in the middle of explaining how she, her husband, her son, and Laura all spent the night searching for Derek. They’ve been to Laura and Benjamin’s apartment (the first place they looked) and the high school. Derek’s bicycle was still chained to the rack out front.

“Unless he hitched a ride,” Kincaid says, “he should still be in Beacon Hills.” He notices John and asks, “Permission to have patrol cars drive by the locations known to be popular Derek Hale sighting spots, sir?”

“Granted,” John says. “Mrs. Votsky, I think in the interest of having my deputy in peak physical condition, I’m going to recommend your son take the day off. If you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

He leaves them to it, confident in his deputy. Kincaid has really surpassed John’s expectations. First, he’s a year off being a rookie, and second, he’s coming straight from desk duty only.

Back in his office, he paces for a few minutes before grabbing his landline and dialing the number for Argent’s new handler, a Kali something-or-other.

She answers with a stilted, “Stilinski.”

“Agent,” he returns. “How is your prisoner? Still in custody?”

“He was last body check,” she jokes.

“Good,” John says. “Well, thank you, Agent…?”

“Dauer,” she supplies.

“Dauer,” John dutifully repeats. “Thank you again.” He winces at the awkwardness and is glad when she hangs up on him instead of prolonging it.

Immediately, he dials Votsky’s number, waiting four rings before a sleepy “Hello,” greets him.

“Sorry, seem to have woken you,” he says, gruffly, because he never really feels comfortable speaking on a personal level with the younger deputies. It always makes him feel like he’s about to break a hip, he’s so old. “Just wanted to let you know you’ve got today off. I think it would be better to have you take today to keep looking for your—Derek. Come in tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” Votsky says, sounding a little awed. “I’ll be available if you need me though.”

“Understood. Goodbye now.” He hangs up, sighing and rubbing at his face.

He sinks into his chair and rests his head on the desk. He needs a Goddamn vacation from this shit.

~ * ~

Derek wakes up stiff and in pain. He’s always been a restless sleeper, tossing and turning while he slumbers, often waking to find himself completely turned around or even hanging off his mattress.

It seems, though, that this week’s trend of staying absolutely still has continued. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that his foot hurts if he moves it, so his body is subconsciously protecting him. It’s nice to be able to rely on himself like that.

He stretches carefully, sighing in relief as his back and shoulders pop and some of the tension leaves his body. He works his hips until they pop too, and then he starts the arduous task of sitting up without using his right leg for leverage. Succeeding at that, he moves onto standing up.

According to his watch, it’s 7:45. His stomach growls at him, gurgling uncomfortably, and he’s reminded the last thing he ate was a meager snack of peanut butter spread over toast squares. It was too hot in the house yesterday for anything else, and Laura had promised that Mrs. Votsky was bringing something home with her from her journey down to Sacramento.

Food, he decides is high on his list of acquiring. That, and he needs to take a leak. At least he’s not too far from the school. He can walk there and back, if he wants to.

But, there is no point in going there until after he has his supplies. Besides, since it’s daylight, the deputies are probably looking for him. He has no doubt that Laura has filed a missing person’s report on him. It just makes earning enough bus fare more challenging.

He checks his watch again. 7:47. He has a long wait ahead of him if he goes to his parents’ house tonight. His stomach growls again, and he pats it gently.

Mom leaves around 8:00 every morning regardless of the day for her charity work. A different charity every day, a different form of ‘good work,’ as Mom likes to call it. Derek is still smarting over the fact that they demanded he pay them back for feeding the kids at school. He was doing good work too.

Dad leaves at 7:00 for his job as a real estate lawyer. But, since it’s Saturday, he’s probably still at home. Sometimes he goes golfing.

There’s more than one way to get to 1858 Preserve Drive, and Derek knows them all.

For his more pressing need to use the facilities, he decides to head to the city park just a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of the school where he can also get water from any one of the spigots.

The park will have more people but considerably less security than the school. It’s a calculated risk. And the water will help stave off any hunger pains for a short while. Just until he can get his first customer to pay him. Then he can get a sandwich or something.

He’s no stranger to waking up hungry and having to use something else, usually water, sometimes just pride, to tide him until he can actually attain some sustenance, and this situation doesn’t feel as dire as it could, which makes him optimistic.

Now, he just has to get down from the tree house without anyone noticing. No small feat with the way he can’t use his right foot at all.

Derek folds the t-shirt and jacket he used for his bedding and crams it into the backpack. He shrugs it on and rolls up the blanket, setting it against the wall lacking an opening. Then, he backs out of the door, gripping the edges until he plants his left foot securely on a plank a few steps down.

He keeps one hand clenched on the doorway while he searches, with limited view, for another plank to grab. Once he’s got a rhythm going, he climbs down steadily, hopping into the bushes to retrieve his bicycle and crutches.

It’s awkward, balancing the crutches over his lap as he pedals with one foot and steers with the opposite hand. The pressure on his bladder is increasing, and he starts pedaling faster, heading for the park. He ignores the wide-eyed stares of a few people out for strolls while the day is still cool enough to enjoy. He’s too busy concentrating on the up-down motion of one leg and counteracting the dead weight of the other by shifting his crutches either right or left.

He’s never been so glad to see outdated playground equipment as he is when he arrives at the park. There are a few kids playing by the see-saw and a mother pushing her baby on the swings as he steers his bicycle to the structure housing the toilets.

This early, there is no line, and Derek hobble-walks as fast as he can with his crutches into a stall.

The relief of pissing is interrupted when he hears footsteps echo behind him. He checks to make sure he remembered to lock the deadbolt. Thankfully he did. Especially when the owner of the footsteps says, “I thought that was you,” in Peter’s voice.

Derek looks down, catching sight of Peter’s scuffed loafers. His cleanly pressed khakis. And, barely visible, a gray box secured to one ankle by a black band. Derek’s spent so much time hanging off Peter’s bed staring at Peter’s shoes tucked under his desk that even if Peter hadn’t spoken, he’s positive he would have recognized him by those shoes alone.

The sharp, bitter taste of nausea chokes him, and he fights down the sudden wash of saliva. How did Peter find him? He was so careful to make sure no one knew where he was.

Derek takes his time finishing up, refastening his jeans and flushing the toilet using his crutch, as he watches Peter’s shoes. And Peter doesn’t move.

He doesn’t have any weapons on him—he’s fifteen, who would trust him with anything other than maybe a penknife? Unless…He hefts one of his crutches. Hollow aluminum. It’ll have to do. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and then throws the door open.

Peter raises an eyebrow at the crutch. “I certainly hope you don’t intend on striking me,” he says disdainfully. “I would hate to have to explain to the esteemed Sheriff that my nephew specifically hunted me down just to assault me.”

The words die in Derek’s throat and if he hadn’t just emptied his bladder, he is positive he’d have pissed himself by now.

He glances down at Peter’s ankle. His uncle notices, lifting his pant leg to show off the monitor. It’s dark, the face blank.

“Isn’t there supposed to be a light on?” Derek asks, faintly. He recalls Laura saying something about a malfunction before he left last night.

Peter shrugs. “It’s the darndest thing,” he says, “woke up yesterday and it wasn’t working. I called my lawyer, who called the Sheriff. A couple of deputies knocked on my door, ascertained I was still on the premises and left.”

The door to the bathroom opens, and Peter shoves Derek back into the stall. He bolts the door, finger held to his lips. The man chooses a urinal close to the entrance and starts pissing loudly. Peter keeps his finger on his lips, and Derek wants to roll his eyes.

Since Peter is still between him and the door, Derek stays still. The man finishes and leaves without washing his hands, which, _gross_ , gives Derek an idea.

“I didn’t get to wash my hands before you interrupted me,” he says, watching in fascination as Peter’s expression morphs from anger to disgust.

“Be quick about it,” he says. Derek shrugs, mimicking Peter. He hobbles to the bank of sinks, setting his crutches against the counter by the paper towel dispenser and picking the basin closest to the door. He deliberately turns both taps on full force. Peter stands behind him, arms crossed over his chest.

Derek depresses the soap dispenser eight times, four for each hand, and then spreads it over his arms and hands, trying not to lather it too much. He keeps an eye on Peter in the mirror. His uncle looks furious and starts pacing. Finally, after a few minutes of Derek taking care to spread the soap as best he can, Peter snaps, rushing to shove Derek into the counter, one hand on his lower back, the other grabbing an arm to run under the tap.

Because of the soap, his hand slides off and Derek uses the momentum to twist away from the hand on his back. Simultaneously, he wipes the soap residue on his other hand across Peter’s face, jabbing his thumb into one of his eyes.

Peter howls in pain, flailing an arm out. Derek manages to dodge it by stepping back, but he oversteps and comes down hard on his broken heel. His own cry of pain cuts off when his back hits the floor.

Derek rolls onto his front, using his arms to drag himself toward the door. If he can just make it outside, he can find someone to help him.

Just as his hand closes around the handle, Peter’s fist slams against the back of his head, which makes his forehead hit and rebound off the door too. Stunned, Derek can’t do much except struggle weakly, limbs flopping uncoordinated, as Peter drags him back into the handicap accessible stall.

“I was just going to get a blow job from you,” Peter pants in Derek’s ear, his hot breath curling in, in, in until Derek feels cold with it. “But, now,” he continues, “I think you need a more effective lesson.”

Peter’s belt buckle jangles, and the breath in Derek’s lungs freezes.

“No,” he whimpers. “Peter, please no. I-I’ll blow you. Please don’t.”

Peter ignores him, fist smashing against his skull again. Bright lights explode in his vision, blacking it out while he feels warmth running down his face. Worryingly, his vision doesn’t clear, the sparks and bursts of static flaring as he feels Peter turn him over onto his back, fingers working under the waistband of his jeans.

Derek pants and gasps for air loudly. He cannot breathe. At first he thinks it’s because Peter is kneeling on his chest, but then he realizes he’s having a panic attack. He tries rolling again, but he’s too weak. He realizes he is going to pass out if he doesn’t manage to relax his lungs enough to take a breath.

Distantly, he feels a new pain ignite. And he knows that Peter is trying to insert a finger into him, probably with nothing but spit. It works to dispel his panic attack and clear his vision, as his shuddering gasps turn into deep gulping sobs. Everything snaps into sharp relief, and Derek squirms as the pain grows. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. It hurts worse when Peter adds another finger.

And then, the door to the bathroom bangs open. Quick footsteps and the stall’s door is kicked open. Deputy Jordan stands there, gun pointed at Peter’s head.

“Get your hands above your head,” he commands, the fluorescent bulb above his head making a halo above him. Or maybe it’s just Derek’s vision going out again. “Do it slowly.”

Peter complies, moving off Derek.

“Hey, buddy,” Deputy Jordan says, kneeling next to him, one hand resting by Derek’s knee while his gun, steady, steady, keeps aiming at Peter’s head, “I need you to move. Can you do that for me?” Derek shakes his head. He can still feel Peter’s digits probing him, and more wetness there. He must be bleeding again. His head throbs in time with his racing heart, and he can taste salt and iron on his lips.

Deputy Jordan looks worried, his face swinging over Derek’s. His gun wavers and holsters and why? Peter. Peter’s going to—

“Where’s Peter?” Derek tries to ask, but he’s slurring his words so badly that he isn’t sure how clear he’s being.

“We’re going to take good care of you,” Deputy Jordan says. “You’re going to be fine.”

That’s a lie and they both know it, but Derek chooses to ignore it, focusing instead on just past Deputy Jordan’s head. Another deputy, a square-headed dark-haired blob, has Peter by the scruff of his neck.

Deputy Jordan watches them leave before reaching down to cradle Derek’s head. “The EMTs are almost here. Hang on a little longer, okay, bud?”

Derek nods. He doesn’t feel too bad despite the new injuries Peter just inflicted. Yes, they hurt, and he’s bleeding, but overall, he thinks he’s lucky the deputies arrived when they did.

“How’d you know where I was?” he asks, slowly, enunciating as clearly as he can. He still slurs his words, and the crease between Deputy Jordan’s eyes gets bigger.

“We got a call from a gentleman who used these facilities a little while ago. He said there was an assault taking place in here. We were in the area, so we responded.” Deputy Jordan frowns. “I need to take pictures for evidence, is that okay?”

“Is it like when you took pictures for the examination?” Derek asks.

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead. I…I want Peter gone.” For some reason, Derek’s eyes burn and his vision blurs out completely again. “I don’t want to ever have to run into him again.”

“We’ll do our best.” Deputy Jordan pulls out a small camera nothing like the one he used during Derek’s earlier exam. He presses a button and it whirs to life. Then, there is nothing but the sound of the camera clicking with that artificial shutter sound.

A few moments later, Deputy Jordan’s radio crackles to life, and he gently sets Derek’s head down to respond. Once he’s done talking, his words buzzy and hard to hear, he covers Derek’s body with his jacket. Before Derek can thank him, the outside door opens again, and a pair of mismatched, uniformed women enter the stall.

Deputy Jordan stands up and moves back toward the toilet, letting them in.

“This is Emergency Medical Tech Jaylanna and her partner Kari,” he says. “They’re going to take care of you, okay?”

They lean down, Jaylanna helping him sit up while Kari wheels in the gurney. Derek stares wide-eyed at them. He can see colors surrounding them, auras, his great-grandmother liked to say. It makes him feel nauseous, like he wants to throw up. It’s nothing like the slick feel of fear from Peter. He thinks he should recognize the women, but the information keeps slipping away as he feels sicker and sicker.

He opens his mouth to say something, and instead hunches forward, dry heaving.

“Whoa, okay,” Jaylanna, dark blob with a purple outline says, helping him up and onto the gurney. Kari, brighter, with a hazy shade of blue around her, slides a bucket under his face. “Derek, we’re taking you to Beacon Hills Memorial. I’ll be riding in the back with you. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there in one piece.”

What an odd thing to say, he thinks right before he stops dry heaving and starts vomiting. This is not fun, and it’s making his head hurt worse. The black spots are back, and they’re multiplying. He mumbles about passing out, and Jaylanna leans close.

“It’s okay to rest for a bit. We’ll be at the ER in a couple minutes anyway,” she whispers.

 Derek takes her at her word, and lets the swaying of the gurney help him drowse off.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings** : Peter sodomizes Derek with his fingers. After Peter surprises Derek in the bathroom, he and Derek fight and Derek loses. Peter is stopped by Deputies Parrish and Haigh, and a pair of Emergency Medical Techs arrive to take Derek to Beacon Hills Memorial.
> 
> It took me a long time to post this chapter because I spent quite some time questioning whether or not to include Peter's renewed assault on Derek, and I only did so because it will enable me to wrap the story more quickly. I apologize for any distress caused.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com)


	19. Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if I've missed anything in the tags. Please don't hesitate to tell me if something is bothering you.

~ * ~

Both of their cell phones going off at the same time wake up Laura and Benjamin.

Startled, bleary, and still so, so fucking tired, Laura grabs one of them and manages to answer it even though she doesn’t open her eyes. She can barely croak out a “Hello?”

“I know the Sheriff gave you the day off, but you need to get in here, like now,” someone says. The phone clicks off before she can place the owner of the voice and she’s left staring at the screen.

Benjamin passes her the phone he answered and then wanders off, presumably for pants. Laura doesn’t know.

She raises the phone to her ear. “’Lo?” She clears her throat.

“Laura, this is Alice. Listen, I need you to come down to the Sheriff’s Station—they found Derek.”

From Alice’s shaky voice, Laura guesses something must not be right. “How is he?” she asks. Alice doesn’t answer right away, confirming her suspicions. “Alice?” she prompts.

“They won’t tell me anything—not where he was found, not the condition he was in, not where he is now. I’m not his guardian. You need to come down here to get that information.”

Laura is surprised the Sheriff hasn’t called her yet. It’s another thing to hold against him, she decides.

Benjamin comes back dressed in his uniform, toothbrush dangling from his mouth while he tucks in his shirt and buckles his belt. She raises an eyebrow at him but he doesn’t react.

“Also,” Alice says, belatedly, “tell Benjamin he’s being recalled. It’s all hands on deck.” Alice hangs up.

“How did you know to get dressed?” Laura asks Benjamin. He shrugs, pointing at his full mouth. He wanders off again, and she stands up and shrugs back into her t-shirt and jeans. She digs out her hairbrush and sits in one of the recliners to tug it through the tangled mess on her head. It doesn’t go well, and she’s nearly in tears from trying to untangle the brush itself from her hair.

Benjamin returns. “I’ll do it,” he says, sitting next to her. He gently pulls the brush free and then begins stroking it through. He never jerks her hair or hurts her, so she relaxes into it.

“They found Derek,” she says.

“I figured.”

“You never answered me.”

He pauses briefly before continuing, parting her hair into thirds and beginning to braid it. “When you answered my phone, you pressed speaker too. I could hear what Kincaid said.”

Laura would feel embarrassed, but her gaffe has bought them some time together where they aren’t fighting. Benjamin finishes her braid, winding a ponytail holder around the end and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She grabs him by the collar and gives him a couple of quick pecks on the lips.

She’s still not sure he’s her It, but he’s definitely It-material. Talia wasn’t wrong that they’re too young, but she might just be wrong that they won’t last.

Laura is grateful that Emilio gave her the whole week off. With everything that’s been happening, she isn’t sure she could have concentrated on teaching her classes. She’ll have to ask him about Monday. She has to be in Redding that morning for a meeting at the courthouse. Maybe she should quit teaching dance at Emilio’s bar. The money isn’t great, and she isn’t sure just how much longer they—her siblings and herself—are going to be in Beacon Hills.

“Did you want to drive or should I?” Benjamin asks. He holds out her keys. Laura grabs them from his palm. It means she’ll have to pick him up when he’s off shift. In the car, Benjamin turns to her. “He’ll be okay,” he says. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Laura doesn’t believe him. There has to be a reason the deputies aren’t telling Alice anything, and it can’t just be because she isn’t Derek’s guardian.

Unless.

Unless Derek was assaulted again.

Kate is still in jail—she can’t have made bail again, not since they wouldn’t have held another arraignment hearing yet.

That leaves Peter. Peter and his malfunctioning ankle monitor.

“Did they ever figure out what was wrong with Peter’s anklet?”

“No,” Benjamin says. “At least, not that I know. They made sure he was at home, but they were going to contact the company today to get the glitch fixed.”

“Is Peter still at my parents’ house?”

“I haven’t heard otherwise,” Benjamin says. That is not reassuring.

Laura grips the wheel, breathing harshly through her nose to stave off panic. What if Peter sabotaged his anklet, made sure the Sheriff’s Department thought he was at home, and then sneaked off to attack Derek?

A small, logical part of her wonders how Peter would know where to find Derek, but the larger, irrational part of her says they all know Derek’s patterns.

He’s been running away from their parents’ house on a regular basis since he was thirteen. She knows all his haunts and thinks that the only reason they never saw him last night was because he knew they knew where he’d be so he wasn’t there then.

Oh, God, her head hurts.

She should have let Benjamin drive.

“Laura?” Benjamin says. She glances at him to find him staring at her concern wrinkling his brow. “Do you want me to drive instead?”

“Peter,” she says instead. She can’t get her hands to unclench from where she has a death grip on the steering wheel. “Peter hurt Derek again.”

“We don’t know that,” he says, soothing. Laura wants to snap at him.

“They won’t tell your mother where he is. They’re waiting for me, but they haven’t contacted me yet. Peter. We need to find Peter!” She knows she sounds desperate, and she thinks Benjamin would understand if he had siblings too.

“Look, let me take over driving and we’ll get to the bottom of everything when we get to the Sheriff’s Station. Okay?”

He reaches over and gently pries her fingers off the wheel one by one. She watches helplessly as he climbs out of the passenger side and comes around to the driver’s door. The ground rocks beneath her feet, and Benjamin refuses to relinquish his hold on her until she’s buckled into the passenger seat.

They haven’t even left the driveway. She’s that pathetic.

“You’re not pathetic at all,” Benjamin says. “Far from it. I’ve had training on how to handle panic. You haven’t. I promise, we will get answers, but I need you to breathe for me. You passing out again will not help.”

“What if Derek’s dead?” she whispers. “What if Peter killed him because we found out what he did?” She is aware that she’s crying, but she’s too numb to feel it. If Derek’s dead…She doesn’t want to answer that. She doesn’t think she could live without either of her siblings.

“We’ll get answers,” Benjamin says firmly. “I promise.”

“Derek doesn’t make promises,” she says. She thinks she knows why now. Even his runaway note hadn’t made a promise; it just said he wanted to withdraw the burden he’d placed on her.

“Fine,” Benjamin says. “It’s not a promise then. It’s fact: we will get answers.”

Laura hopes so. Oh, God, does she.

~ * ~

When John calls again after almost three hours of radio silence, Melissa risks answering him. Rafael is off visiting Scott so he can’t rip her phone from her hand and keep her from speaking to her friend. She does feel guilty that she hasn’t contacted Claudia yet, but it’s hard enough not breaking down and revealing the plot to John. All Claudia would have to do is look at her and the truth would come out. No, it’s best to keep avoiding her right now. Melissa will make her apologies later.

“Melissa,” he says, probably not for the first time if his irritated tone is anything to go by.

“John,” she responds blandly.

“I will figure out what happened to Scott,” he says. A promise. He’s good at keeping those. She wonders what he will do when he realizes he was duped like the rest of this Goddamn town. “But, for now, I wanted to give you a heads up: Derek Hale ran away from his sister last night. This morning, Peter Hale was apprehended but not before he found Derek and assaulted him again. I need you to process Derek when he comes in. According to the deputy who responded to the scene, Peter, he was using his fingers to sodomize Derek—and there’s blood.”

“Jesus,” Melissa says under her breath. “That boy just can’t have a break, can he?”

“No,” John agrees. “Melissa, when I come to talk to you, don’t brush me off. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

“What if I don’t want you to help me?” she counters.

“Lissa.”

“Don’t ‘Lissa’ me, Johnny-boy.” She sighs. Her head hurts. She does not have the patience to deal with an over-inquisitive Sheriff right now. “I will talk to you later,” she tells him.

“Okay.” He hangs up first, and she all but throws her phone into her locker, slamming the lock shut.

Her shift doesn’t officially start for another hour but she can’t take sitting at home and waiting for Rafael to let her know if her baby is coming home soon any longer.

A few of the other nurses side-eye her, no doubt judging her for being here when her son is dead so recently. Melissa stink-eyes them back. She knows where they keep their skeletons. If they get too fresh with her, she’s not afraid to remind them just how much she knows.

She punches in without any trouble and then slips away before any of the other roster nurses can saddle her with the rounds. She’ll do them when she gets back from checking on Derek Hale.

She looks in the recovery bays in the ER, where he is most likely to be found. She has a feeling that a familiar face might be a good thing for him right now.

Melissa finds him in the second to last bay, lying on the mobile bed while Lacey Folsom holds his hand. Standing over them, examining Derek, is the ER doctor on duty, Ned Vandenburg.

“Mild concussion,” Vandenburg says. “Nothing a little rest won’t mend.” Vandenburg looks up, catching sight of and frowning at Melissa. “I see Nurse McCall performed your previous SA kit. Would you prefer her to perform this one as well?”

“I don’t know,” Derek whispers. “I just want to go home.” He covers his face with his free hand, and it’s obvious from the shaking of his shoulders that he is crying. Lacey squeezes his hand.

Despite the growing beard on his chin, he is still just a child. He’s been through so much in his few years that Melissa’s heart breaks for him.

“I’m here if you want me,” she says softly. “Let’s get you settled in your own room first, and then you can decide what you want to do.”

Derek removes the hand from his face. “Can you call Laura again?” He looks guilty. “I…I was stupid—I ran away from her. It’s why I was—there. She—she must be worried.”

“I’ll call her,” Melissa promises. “Is there anything you want me to tell her?”

She has an idea, and Derek doesn’t disappoint when he mumbles, “Can you tell her I’m sorry?”

“I can if you want me to, but I think that’s a conversation that’s best held between you two.”

He doesn’t respond.

Vandenburg points to the curtain surrounding the bay, and Melissa follows him out of earshot of Derek and Lacey.

“I heard about Scott,” he says, and for a moment, she doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he continues. “Are you sure you want to be here today?”

At first, she thinks he’s asking if she can do her job properly, but then she registers his concern as genuine. “I’m fine,” she murmurs. “Scott would have wanted me to carry on.”

Vandenburg puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, imparting comfort Melissa is too numb to feel. She appreciates the sentiment all the same.

“If you ever need anything, Catherine and I would be glad to help.”

“Thank you.” Guilt—that’s what that ugly burning sensation crawling up her back is. She wonders if Vandenburg and his wife would be so quick to offer her goodwill if they knew she was lying about Scott’s death. She’ll be lucky if all she gets are dirty looks. She’s heard the rumors following Derek.

How anyone could look at that boy and think he hurt his sister is beyond Melissa. Every time she sees him, he seems more lost and broken. Which reminds her, she needs to call his sister.

“Excuse me, I need to call Laura Hale now,” she says. Vandenburg nods.

“I’d better make my rounds. Let me know who he wants to perform the kit, would you?”

“Will do.” She is half tempted to salute him, but thankfully, she restrains the urge. The hospital already thinks she’s bonkers for working after Scott’s ‘death.’ She doesn’t need to hand them any more ammunition. Besides, she really does need to call Laura. Where did she put that sticky note with Derek’s emergency contact number?

Oh, that’s right. It’s in his file, out at the nurses’ station, with all the judgmental bitches hanging around gawking at her. Joy.

She sighs, squaring her shoulders. She’s brave enough, strong enough. She’s Melissa Fucking McCall and she won’t be told how she should live her life. No ma’am.

She still feels like balking, and no amount of psyching herself up is going to change that.

~ * ~

At the intersection where turning left leads to the Sheriff’s Station and turning right takes them through the downtown business district, Laura’s phone rings.

She’s clutching it in her hand, surprised that she is. Usually she tucks it into a pocket and forgets about it, especially in vehicles. Lifting it up, she catches the hospital’s name. Her stomach sinks, nausea welling. The morgue is in the hospital’s basement.

“Wait,” she says to Benjamin, who puts the car in park. She presses ‘send.’

“Laura Hale.”

“Laura, this is Melissa McCall at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.  I’m calling to ask you to come to the hospital. The Beacon County Sheriff’s Department located your brother Derek.”

“Is he okay?” She pulls the phone away from her ear to put it on speakerphone.

“He’s…hurt,” Melissa hedges. Laura shares a panicked glance with Benjamin.

“Hurt how?” she asks. “His foot?”

“That will be checked out too, but, Laura, he was found being attacked by Peter. There was blood. He’s been asked to submit to a second sexual assault examination kit.”

Laura punches Benjamin’s arm. It’s a testament to him that he doesn’t react, aside from rubbing the spot. She hits him again harder for good measure.

“Peter is in jail now?” Laura asks, coldly. She wants to hit Benjamin a third time for doubting her, but he shifts gears and pulls away from the stop sign. They’re heading to the hospital.

Laura punches off the speakerphone and hunches over her phone. “Can you tell me anything about his condition?” she asks—begs really. He barely made it through the first kit intact. She doesn’t know if she can just sit by his side again and hold his hand when all she wants to do is hunt Peter down and break his fucking skull open. Derek doesn’t need to see her angry and think she’s mad at him.

Laura doesn’t even know how she’s supposed to help her brother when nothing is going right for him.

All she does know is that regardless of what happens, whether Peter stands trial or takes a plea, she’s getting her siblings the fuck out of this nightmarish town.

She hopes he takes the plea if only to spare Derek from having to testify. She doesn’t think her brother could survive that. From the old rumors swirling around the town, stirred up when the news of Derek’s abuse surfaced, the ice cream parlor couple, Mr. and Mrs. Halvershiem, had a daughter who couldn’t survive. Luana Halvershiem hanged herself the night her rapist went to trial.

Laura does not want to come home some day and find Derek swinging from the end of a rope.

Benjamin can stay if here if he wants. Right now, she isn’t even sure if she wants to be his girlfriend any longer.

“I’ll brief you when you get here,” Melissa says. “Right now, I need to check on your brother, make sure he’s settling in okay, that his foot wasn’t aggravated too much since we still need to operate on it.”

God, Derek is just going to love that. Be off his foot all day to help with the swelling and then fuck it up again so he can’t be fixed sooner.

She sighs. At least he _is_ still alive. She has no doubt that Peter would have probably tried to kill him. Her uncle is not a kind man, and especially not once he’s been ‘betrayed.’ She doesn’t know how Derek has survived his abuse this long.

“We’ll be at the hospital in about five minutes,” Laura promises. “Thank you, Melissa.”

“Don’t mention it.” Melissa hangs up.

Almost immediately, Benjamin says, “I don’t want to be that guy, but I think we should take a break.”

Laura stays silent.

“I know,” he sighs, “we’ve been together for so long that there’s bound to be a few spats now and again, but you can’t just hit me because I told you to wait for evidence.”

“I was right that Peter attacked Derek,” she snaps. “You weren’t. You wanted me to be wrong simply because you like being right. My brother could have died because of Peter.”

“I don’t always have to be right,” Benjamin says.

“You have to be right right now!” Laura points out.

“Anyway,” he speaks over her, “you can’t blame me for Peter assaulting Derek. He ran away and put himself in that position. The deputies made sure Peter was at home. You told Derek the anklet wasn’t working. He shouldn’t have run away.”

Laura is shaking with rage, she’s absolutely livid. As soon as Benjamin parks the car, she unbuckles her seatbelt and slams open the door. When he follows her, she whirls on him. “Get the fuck away from me!” she screams.

She continues, “You don’t get to blame Derek for what Peter did to him. Yes, Derek ran away. He has history of running away. You wanna know why? Because it’s the only fucking thing he has any control over. The deputies made sure Peter was home but then they didn’t make sure he stayed home. And where was the fucking patrol car keeping an eye on Derek?”

She’s crying, standing out in the hospital parking lot, yelling at her definitely-ex-boyfriend. There is no way in hell she’ll let this bastard anywhere near her family ever again. Next she knows, he’ll be agreeing that Derek brought this whole cycle of abuse down on himself for never speaking up about it.

It’s a damn good thing he’s revealed his true colors now. She won’t feel guilty about throwing his shit out of her apartment and moving the fuck out of this town.

“I don’t ever want to hear from you again,” she says, as calmly as she can through her gasping sobs and stuffed up nose. “You can rot in hell for all I care. Give me my keys.” Because, yes, this is her Ford Focus. She’ll be damned if he gets away with taking anything else from her. He’s already had six years of her life.

“Fine,” Benjamin says. He throws the keys at her head and stalks off. He’s got his radio. He’ll probably call for a ride. She doesn’t care. Her priority is Derek.

Her priority should always have been her siblings, and especially her brother.

~ * ~

The station is simultaneously a madhouse and almost completely deserted.

There is a cluster of four deputies, his father in their midst, huddled by the large pinup board they use for complex cases, but the rest of the deputies are out in the field, pounding pavement and collecting more evidence. Their desks have been left in a state of disarray, with stacks of files strewn haphazardly about.

Stiles walks around, fingers tapping idly over the tabs of the files. Most of them have something to do with either _The St. Croix Rehabilitation Center_ or Gerard Argent’s ranch.

Curiosity piqued, he risks a glance at the deputies. They are all still busy with whatever they’re discussing. He sits down and flips open the top folder.

A few paragraphs in, and he realizes that _St. Croix_ is a camp helping sexual deviants deal with their urges. He sets it aside and grabs a folder from the Argent-pile. It details his suspected human and drug trafficking operation. Stiles closes the folder and frowns down at it, his mind whirring. _St. Croix_ might be a cover for Argent, Stiles thinks. Except, no. He goes back to _St. Croix_ ’s folder, and the further he reads, he finds out it is located due south, near San Diego, while Argent’s dude ranch is in southern Idaho.

So, why are the deputies all interested in Argent’s farm? The investigation into Argent should be headed by the FBI, not some backwater town that’s barely on the map—no offense to the deputies and his dad. But, then again, Agent McDouche is in town, ruining everyone’s lives and getting his son killed.

So maybe the FBI is in charge of Argent’s investigation. But then why is Beacon County looking at a sexual deviance camp nowhere near them?

Obviously, _St. Croix_ has something to do with Derek Hale. Maybe Dad is going to suggest sending Kate and Peter there instead of having them stand trial? How useless would that be? And it wouldn’t make their victim feel any safer since _St. Croix_ is a minimum security facility. Oh, with a spa and everything. Honestly, _St. Croix_ sounds more like a resort than a rehabilitation center.

If Peter and Kate go there, Stiles is positive they won’t be deterred. This place looks holistic and for rich people. Both of which Peter and Kate are.

And that’s enough of that, Stiles decides. It’s time to do what he came to do, why he stopped by the Sheriff’s Station on a Saturday when he could be at the bakery, facing down another barrage of too-curious townspeople: to update his dad on Derek Hale’s runaway status, per his promise to Laura. As mad as he thinks he is at Derek (which, he’s not mad at him now, definitely. He thinks he was just influenced by those doctors. Who wouldn’t be, all those PhDs floating around), he really shouldn’t have let it go this long. He brushes off the shudder of guilt pinching the back of his neck.

Stiles straightens the files he was looking at and stands up. It’s a miracle Dad hasn’t noticed him yet.

It doesn’t last.

Dad spots him right away when he approaches the crowd, and immediately he heads him off. Stiles still notes that the board is covered in lines of colored threads branching off from Derek Hale’s surly mug. He also notices a yellow line connecting Scott’s school picture to Derek.

“Hey, Stiles, how are you feeling?” Dad asks, gently, like Stiles is going to break any second. Joke’s on him. He would have done that last night when he learned of his forever-platonic soul mate’s passing. He’s trying to ignore the porcelain cracks beneath the surface of his skin. He’s doing a great job of it too, if he says so himself.

“I’m fine,” he responds automatically. He isn’t really—he doesn’t feel fine at all in fact, too jittery and on edge—but Dad doesn’t need to know the truth. The way he’s looking at Stiles, he knows anyway. “I need to tell you something.”

Dad motions to the bench in front of his office. Stiles ignores the eyehooks where cuffs can be attached. He knows, his dad is just trying to protect the investigation. Can’t have his fourteen year old son seeing graphic pictures and having nightmares. Not that there are any graphic pictures there, anyway.

They sit, and Stiles breathes deeply, trying to calm his frazzling nerves.

“So, um, Derek ran away last night,” he begins.

“I know,” Dad interrupts.

“You do?”

“Yes, Stiles, I do. What I want to know is: how do you know?”

Stiles fixes his gaze on his lap where his hands have twisted themselves together. Deliberately, he unfolds them and wipes them on his pants. “Laura, ah, Laura Hale called me last night. I was supposed to tell you, but you told me about Scott, and I forgot and I’m sorry, but it’s not like he was taken. I mean, he left of his own volition and I know he’s a minor and you still have to look for him and—”

“Stiles, shut up.”

That is Dad’s ‘I’m too disappointed in you to yell at you’ voice. He only breaks it out for the really bad things Stiles does. Or when he wants Stiles to stop rambling, like now.

“When did Laura call you exactly?”

Stiles squints at the ceiling, concentrating. He was reading those articles on suicidal ideation and he remembers looking at the clock when his phone buzzed. “Maybe 1:00 or so?” he finally says. Dad sighs.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he says, leaning closer to Stiles. He glances around, but the deputies are still at the board, fingers and tongues wagging. “Peter Hale’s ankle monitor malfunctioned—it stopped transmitting his location. It went dead, completely. His lawyer called us about it too. Probably covering his butt. We sent deputies out to the Hale house to confirm he was still there. They reported back that he was. This was around 10:00 last night.”

Stiles’ stomach sinks. The way Dad’s telling this story, something bad is going to happen—has already happened. Dad’s disappointed voice. Stiles flushes and tears brim his eyes. Did his inaction lead to something?

“Peter didn’t stay home,” Dad continues. “He was able to locate Derek and assault him. Thankfully, Pastor Johnson happened upon them, and Deputies Parrish and Haigh were able to stop Peter.” Dad sighs again. He uses a gentle thumb to wipe away a tear from Stiles’ cheek. “It isn’t your fault—I didn’t tell you to make you feel guilty. I told you so that you’d realize how important it is to pass along information.”

Dad stands, pats Stiles’ head, and turns to go back to his deputies. Stiles grabs his hand.

“Do you think,” he says, “that you would have found Derek before Peter if I had told you about him last night?”

“I don’t know,” Dad answers. “Maybe? I was—am out of it now. Scott…There’s so much going on…I just don’t know.” He turns away again.

Stiles clears his throat. “Have you told Laura yet?”

Dad’s shoulders slump. “I sent a message through her mother-in-law.” He refuses to look at Stiles, and he thinks that means he feels guilty too. “It’s not something I want to tell her over the phone. The last time I did that, she fainted.”

“Is Derek going to be okay?” Stiles doesn’t know why he asked that. It’s not like his dad has the answer. Hell, probably even Derek doesn’t have the answer to that question.

“He’s got a long road ahead of him,” Dad says. “He probably will never be what you or I would define as ‘okay,’ but he’s strong, a fighter.” Dad smiles at something, and Stiles wonders what Dad isn’t telling him. “If he sets his mind to it, I have no doubt he’ll get to a place where he’s okay with himself.”

“Do you think that place is in Beacon Hills?” Stiles knows his dad’s response before he shakes his head. This town is nothing but evil for Derek, they all know it. It’s a wonder he’s still here.

“I would be very surprised if Derek Hale stays here any longer than he has to.”

Meaning, as soon as the trial is done or his abusers take pleas, Derek’s gone.

Stiles understands that sentiment. He does. He’s already contemplating how far away he can get as soon as he can. Beacon Hills just isn’t the same without Scott. Nothing ever will be. Stiles wonders if he’ll always be looking over his shoulder, trying to catch the ghost of his best friend just so he can tell him about his day.

He won’t begrudge Derek if he leaves. Not when he’s going to do the same.

“Don’t play the ‘what if’ game, Stiles,” Dad throws over his shoulder. “Yes, you should have told me as soon as Laura called you, but it’s not your fault Derek was attacked. You didn’t give Peter the information he needed.”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Stiles mutters. And he wasn’t…mostly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the guilt of contributing to Derek’s assault, no matter how indirectly. “I’m going to check on Mom now,” he announces to his dad’s back. Dad grunts and waves him off.

Mom is taking Scott’s death hard. She refuses to get out of bed, and Stiles is positive they’re going to have to shut the bakery down indefinitely. As it is, they are really short-staffed right now. No Scott. No Mom, no Stiles, no Isaac. Mom might have to call in the senior citizen crew who helps her run it when her high school crew is in school.

He doesn’t think he can work there without Scott. It was one thing when Scott was out injured, but now?

Stiles wonders what’s going to happen when school starts again in three weeks. Will Mom still be confined to her bed? How will he handle high school without his best buddy by his side?

It’s really sinking in that Scott’s gone. Stiles has started a dozen texts to him and has had to stop in the middle of saying ‘Hey’ or ‘Hi’ or ‘I miss you.’

It’s getting old fast, and he can see the appeal of pulling the covers over his head and pretending the world doesn’t exist anymore. But, that doesn’t mean he isn’t mad at his mom for not being more Mom-like. Usually, she’s infallible. Right now, he feels like she’s being selfish and weak. It’s not even her own son that was killed.

Stiles is still here and he still needs her.

He needs both his parents, but Dad’s busy working and Mom’s busy having a mental breakdown.

Stiles wants to scream.

Instead, he hurries from the room. He noticed one major thing on the board the deputies were all gawking over: there are no pictures of Scott’s body. Which means, they haven’t located it. Well, Stiles will show them.

He knows all of Scott’s haunts. He can find where Argent’s hired killer murdered his best friend. Maybe he can even prove that Scott is still alive. After all, without a body, how can one definitively prove death?

He’s grasping, he knows he is, but it feels better than sitting around doing nothing.

Stiles clutches the handlebars of his bicycle, digging his phone out to punch in Scott’s number again. He debates with himself for a few long minutes before he presses send. He listens to it ring six times before the voice messaging system kicks on. He almost weeps at the sound of Scott’s voice flippantly telling him to leave a message, he’ll get back to him ASAP.

“You’d better not be dead,” he growls into the phone, “otherwise, I’m going to kill you for real when I find you. That’s a promise, Scott. Don’t be dead or I’ll kill you.”

He climbs onto his bike and kicks up the stand. He’ll start with the tree house behind his house. Scott sometimes likes to hang out there when his dad calls and makes his mom sad. Stiles keeps an old blanket there for the times when Scott stays overnight. They haven’t had to do that for a couple of years now, so he wonders what state the tree house is in.

Can’t be too structurally sound. Dad hasn’t done maintenance on it in forever, and neither Scott nor Stiles are much carpentry-inclined.

Stiles wipes his tears and straps on his helmet.

He’s going to find Scott or his body. Either way, he’s getting his closure. He’ll make damn sure of it.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am less pleased with how this one turned out. It seemed to flow oddly at times. Oh well.
> 
> Thanks to all who read, kudos, favorite, subscribe, and bookmark, and double thanks to those that comment.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/)


	20. Nineteen

~ * ~

Laura stays with Derek through the second kit, holding tight to his hand. Mrs. McCall performs the exam as quickly as she can while Deputy Jordan takes more pictures with his fancy camera. The sense of déjà vu is overwhelming, disconcerting, but Derek doesn’t dissociate this time so he counts it as a win.

He knows his sister is mad at him. How could she not be? He ran away, and Peter caught him. It’s his fault he’s back in the hospital. If he had just fought harder, maybe he would have gotten away.

He doesn’t even really have a concussion—mild means it doesn’t count. And he’s not really hurt. Peter scratched him. That’s where all the blood came from. Not a tear like Mrs. McCall tells Laura.

Derek knows his own body. He’s fine. He’s only being a baby. He just needs to get over it.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the exam is over, the curtain pulled back, and Laura is mopping his face with a tissue she dug out from somewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to be a burden anymore. And now I’m even more of one.”

“No, Derek, no,” Laura says, stroking one hand through his hair. He tries not to flinch at her touch. “You’re never a burden. Not to me. I love you.”

“Always,” Derek recalls. Laura offers a timid smile. “Peter said he wanted to teach me a lesson for telling on him. Mr. Argent kidnapped Cora and me to get me to retract my accusation of Kate. If they’re the ones doing bad things, why am I the one being punished?”

Laura has no answer for him; he can see it in her eyes. He’s being petulant again. He needs to stop.

The room’s door opens and closes and Derek expects it to be Mrs. McCall or Deputy Jordan coming back for more follow-up questions. He is surprised, instead, to see Dr. Geyer standing at the foot of his recovery bed.

“Hello, Derek,” Dr. Geyer says without looking up from Derek’s chart. “I’m here to check your foot. I’m sure you remember we needed the swelling to go down before we could schedule the operation to reset the calcaneus bone. Are you ready?” Dr. Geyer puts the chart down finally and grins brightly at Derek.

“I suppose,” Derek says. He glances at Laura, who nervously smiles back at him.

Dr. Geyer grabs a pair of nitrile gloves, snapping them on with a flourish. “My hands will probably feel a little cold at first,” he warns, right before he brushes his fingers over Derek’s right ankle. It tickles more than anything. Then, he touches Derek’s heel, and he swears the lights get brighter while his ears ring.

Derek shudders, blinking back a spring of tears. Laura tightens her grip on his hand.

“Okay,” Dr. Geyer says a few agonizing moments later, “the good news is the swelling has gone down enough that we should be able to schedule your surgery. The better news is we can get you in on Monday.”

“And the bad news?” Laura asks, eyeing Dr. Geyer suspiciously.

He fixes them both with a serious stare. “You absolutely cannot put any weight on your foot for the next day and a half. For that purpose, we will be sending you home with a wheelchair.”

Derek stares blankly at him.

“I live on the third floor and there is no elevator,” Laura says. “How is he supposed to use a wheelchair?”

Dr. Geyer looks frustrated. “His other option is to sit or lie completely motionless until Monday. And then,” he continues, “after the surgery, he will have to remain off that foot for up to four weeks.” His face softens. “I know it isn’t ideal, but it’s what needs to be done.”

“Can’t I keep the crutches?” Honestly, even being laid up for four weeks without using his foot isn’t any different from how he’s been this week. It just means he can’t work at all, not even to mow lawns.

Dr. Geyer shakes his head. “With how much movement you’ll have in the next couple of months, it would be best to be consistent in your mobility, as limited as it will be. The wheelchair will enable you to retain at least some autonomy.”

Derek isn’t convinced, but Dr. Geyer seems set on the wheelchair. He doesn’t want to end up stuck in the hospital if Dr. Geyer decides not to release him.

“Who’s going to pay for the surgery?” Derek asks, as a distraction. If he stops arguing about the crutches, he’ll get out of here sooner. But, he truly is curious as to who the hospital thinks is going to be responsible for the medical bills he is accruing.

Laura frowns at him, and Derek shrugs. “We’ll worry about that later,” she tells him, through tightly clenched teeth.

Dr. Geyer beams at them. “We have an excellent program for challenged individuals.”

“Challenged how?” Laura narrows her eyes at him. His smile falters.

“Money?” he says in a small voice. “It’s a program for people below a certain income bracket. It’s for poverty-stricken families.”

“I don’t qualify,” Derek says. At Dr. Geyer’s raised eyebrow, he continues, “I haven’t lived with my parents for four and a half days. Technically, they still have control over me—my medical decisions—and any organization is going to look at their finances and determine that I do not qualify for assistance.”

“I’ve already started the paperwork on becoming your guardian,” Laura says. She sounds annoyed. “Monday is when I go before Judge Andersen in Redding to ask for an injunction against Talia and James so that they can’t use parental rights to dissuade the courts from allowing me to assume custody of both you and Cora.”

Derek stares at her. “When did you do that?” he asks, awed.

Laura blushes. “Wednesday, when we mailed Cora’s camp fees.”

“Is that why you told me not to worry about things that day?”

“Sort of? I mean, I didn’t know for sure that I could start proceedings until I got a call from Judge Andersen’s office. Which I finally got yesterday. We’re supposed to be assigned a pro bono lawyer for the duration of the case.”

“Won’t Mom and Dad just hire a better lawyer?” Derek asks.

“Someone who works pro bono is not the same as an assigned public defender. It won’t be whoever’s up—well, it will be—but their experience is likely to be greater than that of a green defense attorney.”

“But,” Derek says, softly, “Mom and Dad could still win.”

Laura sighs, and Derek understands. She’s annoyed with him, with his dejected outlook of life. “They could,” she admits, “but they’re going to have a hell of a fight. The first step is getting the injunction which will block them from using their status as your parents to claim rights over you.”

“Those rights will go to you?”

“Eventually.” Laura glares down at her hands, still holding his. Her nail polish, pale pink and unassuming, is chipped, pocked and flaking. Derek doesn’t know the last time she painted her nails, but it hasn’t been since she’s been looking after him. It makes him realize that as much care as she takes with him and his issues, he hasn’t afforded her the same courtesy. Instead of questioning her likes she’s already lost the war, he should be thanking her for fighting for him.

She has done nothing but be supportive of him—aside from their disagreement about Dr. Deaton—the least he can do is stop being so fucking pessimistic.

“I’m trying,” Laura says, pulling away. Derek reaches out and grabs her hand.

“I know,” he says. “I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me, for everything you will do. You are amazing, and you are the only adult I trust.”

It’s a lie, but it’s only a little one, and it is worth telling just to see his sister’s face light up even as her eyes water and she dabs at them.

“I know how difficult that is for you,” she says, her voice choked. “I love you.” Derek tenses when she leans in and kisses his cheek. She’s gone before he is done flinching, and he tightens his grip on her hand before she completely pulls away.

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

“Don’t be sorry for the way you are; it isn’t your fault. I should have warned you I was going to do that.”

Dr. Geyer clears his throat. “I’m going to check with your admitting physician and see about getting you released.” He stares at Derek, eyes dark, serious. “Stay off that foot at all costs.” Then he departs, coat flapping dramatically.

“I think I’m going to rest a bit,” Laura says, offhandedly. “I was up all night.”

Derek flushes, guilty. She spent all night looking for him? He was positive she would have given up when she couldn’t find him in all the usual places. Mom and Dad always did.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Laura looks at him strangely. “You didn’t hurt me at all. Well, that’s not true. You did hurt me by running away, but that wasn’t a physical pain.”

“I should have stayed,” Derek insists. He barely recalls why he thought he needed to leave. Was it because Benjamin and Laura were fighting over him?

“I understand why you ran,” Laura says.

“You do?”

“It’s because that’s the only thing in your life you can control. You’ve always run right after something else happens that makes you have less autonomy.”

“No, that’s not true,” Derek protests. “Usually I run because I want to get away. It’s not about control. It’s about escape.”

Laura yawns widely, and Derek blinks at her.

“Sorry. I’m tired.” She points to the other bed in the room. “I’ll be right there if you need me.” She tugs her hand free and climbs onto the bed, curled on her side facing him. Within minutes, she is snoring lightly, and Derek is left staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles while he listens to her breathing. He makes it to one-hundred-and-thirty-one before he too falls asleep.

~ * ~

Araya has Scott stirring something spicy in a pot on the stove when Mom’s Camry pulls into the driveway.

For a brief, elated moment Scott thinks Mom has come to get him, to take him back to Beacon Hills with her. The illusion is shattered when Dad steps out of the vehicle and makes his way to the door.

When Araya lets him in, Dad looks sad and tired and old. Is that from pretending Scott’s dead or from something else?

“Hey, champ!” Dad forces a smile when he sees Scott at the stove. Scott doesn’t return the smile. Dad hasn’t called him anything but his name since he yelled at him when he was ten. “So, Deucalion thinks I should be able to drop the news that you’re still alive today. I just need a couple of pictures with you.”

Araya eyes him as she dices vegetables.

“No,” Dad says to her unspoken insult, “I’m not stupid enough to do it here. I’m taking Scott fishing in a town about an hour east of Beacon Hills.”

Araya snorts derisively. “Do you expect anyone to believe that you would take your son fishing?”

Dad flushes in anger.

“No,” Araya continues. “It makes more sense for you to find something the boy is interested in and try to spend time with him using that activity as a reason.”

“I like rock climbing,” Scott offers. Dad frowns at him. He doesn’t believe him. Scott ducks away and goes back to stirring the _chili con carne_ or whatever Araya said when she woke Scott up this morning. He isn’t lying about the rock climbing thing, no matter what Dad’s face says.

Last year, the National Guard did an obstacle course at the high school, and Scott and Stiles (mostly Stiles) managed to convince, Mr. Thompson, their eighth grade science teacher that it would benefit their study of physics to watch. Stiles had loved the inflatable maze, but Scott was _gone_ the moment he set his eyes on that magnificent structure.

It was fate, he thinks, that at the exact second his class walked into the gymnasium, Allison Argent was ringing the bell at the top of the rock climbing wall.

He still isn’t sure how he was able to get her number, but he’s glad he did. They would have met anyway because he finally turned fourteen, old enough to work for Mrs. S. and Allison was hired that same week too, but he got to meet her without her best friend Lydia, who only tolerated Scott when he wasn’t with Stiles and only for a few minutes at a time.

“Your asthma, Scott,” Dad warns.

Scott glares at him. “Where was this concern when you wanted to go to that racquetball tournament six months ago?”

“That was different,” Dad says. “You weren’t supposed to play.”

“Why didn’t you stop your boss from making me? It was a test.” Stiles told him that later, when he was back home and Mom had had to go to work so she’d left Stiles in charge of him.

“Besides, I don’t get attacks if I go slow and don’t overexert myself. I can rock climb.”

Allison had kissed him when he rang the bell on their first date at the rock wall in Redding. He’d had an attack that night too but it was because he’d panicked when her lips touched his. A quick puff or two on his inhaler and he was ready for another round of climbing and kissing.

Mom still grounded him when Allison dropped him off, late for his curfew by eight minutes.

“Fine.” Dad throws his hands up, defeated. Scott suppresses the urge to fist pump. “I’ll try to find a studio—not the one in Redding, that’s too close. Give me two hours.”

He turns on his heel and marches out of the door, passing Severo returning from whatever errands Araya sent him on before she woke up Scott.

“Why two hours?” Scott asks, not expecting an answer. He’s certain he’s just asked a dumb question.

“Not so stupid then, is he.” Araya smiles. She grabs the cutting board laden with her labor and dumps it into the pot. “Stir faster, _muchacho_ ,” she says with a pat to Scott’s shoulder. She sinks into a chair at the table and rests her feet on the seat opposite her. “The reason for two hours is there is a satellite office about forty minutes south of here. Rafael will go there to find his answer so that people cannot track him back to Newell.” Araya taps her temple. “Rafael is smarter than he appears. It makes him better at getting information from people.”

“Because smart people are impatient?”

Araya and Severo laugh, but Scott can’t tell if it’s with him or at him. He’s being sincere. Many a time has Stiles sighed and rolled his eyes at him when he doesn’t get things right away or without someone having to take the time to explain it. Maybe Rafael really is as stupid as he looks and Scott just inherited it.

“Yes, Scott, smart people are impatient. Often, it’s because they understand things and do not have experience with not knowing. Now, _muchacho_ , stir for ten minutes and then you are done.”

Scott says, “Okay,” because there is nothing else to say. This _chili con carne_ better be worth the ache in his wrist.

~ * ~

Someone has been in the tree house recently.

Stiles freezes, blinking into the darkened interior—the windows are not letting in near enough light to see satisfactorily while his eyes adjust.

He can smell something—woodsy? Maybe a hint of leather?

Whatever it is it’s out of place here. Both Scott and Stiles wear AXE Body Spray. Dad’s been trying to get them to switch to old man perfume for a few years now. Stiles is glad he failed because now his nose recognizes that someone’s been in his territory.

He crawls fully into the tree house, now that his eyes have adjusted and he can see again. Stiles scuttles on hands and knees to the back of the structure where they keep a blanket for random sleepovers. The strange smell is most concentrated here, which makes sense; the blanket would hold the smell of the cologne.

He unrolls it, holding his breath for the inevitable dust cloud that is kicked up every time he and Scott don’t visit for a long time.

Of course, it doesn’t happen, and he feels little ashamed at himself. The person who used the blanket last probably got a lungful when they moved it. It’s still rather dust-lacking, so Stiles estimates the culprit used it in the past three days. The cologne, though, wouldn’t stick around that long.

It’s definitely worth telling Dad about, but it’s not too dire. Obviously the person is long gone, and Stiles really can’t say when the person was here. He’ll go check on Mom and the bakery and then go ask Dad about different scents of cologne.

He backs out of the tree house, scampering down the ladder as quickly as he dares—it is old, after all. Maybe he should secure the steps? After he talks to Dad, he decides. And finds Scott.

He turns around as soon as his feet touch the ground, only to come face to face with a decrepit old granny.

“Hi, Mrs. Hammerhill,” he says brightly, when he gets his startled breath back. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” It’s too hot and it’s barely 10:00 in the morning.

Mrs. Hammerhill squints at him and ignores his attempt at polite conversation, demanding, gruffly, “How many of you delinquents you got hiding up there?”

Stiles claps a hand to his chest. “‘Delinquent’?” he quotes, affecting a shocked tone. “I’ll have you know, my fair lady, that I am not a ‘delinquent.’”

“Oh, aren’t you?” she replies wickedly, tapping her cane dangerously close to his feet. There is a reason her house is egged every mischief night, although Dad usually catches the culprits and makes them clean it up the next day. Mrs. Hammerhill smacks her cane into the ground a little harder, and Stiles is alarmed to see dust rising from where it hits. “You’re the second scrawny misfit to fall out of that deathtrap up there.”

Scrawny? Another kid? Scott or…Derek?

“Deathtrap?” Stiles snorts. “My dad, the _Sheriff_ , built that.”

“And it’s not up to code,” Mrs. Hammerhill says.

At this, Stiles bristles. He’s run out of patience for this crone. “My dad built it to code, you old bat,” he hisses, dodging a deliberately-aimed blow from the cane. “He submitted blueprints to the City Council and acquired the proper permits. That is more than I can say about your illegal—excuse me, _free-standing—_ garage.”

Mrs. Hammerhill snorts derisively and shuffles back toward her property. Her cane taps the ground harder than necessary, but Stiles doesn’t care as long as she goes far away and leaves his feet alone.

Once she’s back across the hedge-fence line and the annoying _pock-pock_ sound of her cane fades, Stiles examines the tree. A misfit. Like Derek Hale limping around with his crutches? Or Scott with his bandaged hand?

Stiles thinks Derek is the more likely choice. He doesn’t recall Derek smelling like the cologne permeating the tree house, but that means nothing. Maybe it belongs to Laura’s boyfriend.

He can’t wait to tell Dad. Not if Derek was here last night. This is important information.

Stiles pulls out his phone and punches in his dad’s speed dial.

“Hey, Stiles,” Dad answers on the second ring. He sounds exhausted. How much sleep did he get last night before being called out? It can’t have been that much. “What’s up?”

“Someone was in the tree house,” Stiles says.

“What?!” Dad sounds awake now. “When? Now?”

“No, earlier. Mrs. Hammerhill, you know, the old monster from the corner—”

“Stiles, she is not a monster. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Anyway,” Stiles continues, louder, “Mrs. Hammerhill says she saw a, and I quote, ‘scrawny misfit’ exit the tree house this morning.”

Dad doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Stiles counts to ten twice before he comes back on the line to demand, “Did she say when she saw the other person?”

“Nope. She called me a delinquent too. Dad, it’s the middle of summer. And even if it wasn’t, it’s Saturday. How am I being a delinquent right now?”

“Stiles, are you at the tree house right now?”

Stiles pauses. Dad sounds really worried now. “Yes?”

“Get in the house. Leave it alone. One of the deputies will be by to talk to you and Mrs. Hammerhill.”

“Fine.” Stiles stomps toward the house, and Dad sighs.

“No attitude, Stiles, please. This is an investigation now.”

“What are you investigating?”

“Nice try. No dice. You’ll find out when the investigation is complete, just like everybody else.”

“Dad, there was an odd smell in the tree house—on the blanket. Like cologne. Not one I’m familiar with.”

Stiles hears his dad’s head hit his desk and the muttered, “God damn it.” Dad sucks in a loud breath suddenly. “Thanks, Stiles. We’ll look into it. Now get your ass inside and kiss your mom for me, okay?”

Dad hangs up, and Stiles glares at his phone. He’s just supposed to go inside and wait around for the deputy now? No thank you. He’ll still check on Mom, make sure she’s had something to eat. But, he has plans, damn it. One little setback is not going to prevent him from seeking out the truth of his missing friend, no matter what Dad says.

Maybe he really is a delinquent.

Oh, well, too late to change his ways. Dad understands this, even if he pretends not to.

~ * ~

The lady with a truly impressive blonde beehive balanced on her head says, “This is your room.” Isaac snaps his attention back onto her and nods. The room is nice, objectively. Isaac’s room at home is better because it has his shit.

The lady smiles at him, and he steps back, bumping into Boyd. His friend claps a hand onto his shoulder and squeezes. As comforting as it is, it still feels restrictive, and Isaac shrugs him off.

“Any questions so far?” The lady looks expectant. The only two questions Isaac has are not appropriate, he thinks.

Boyd raises his hand. “Is Isaac allowed to have friends over?”

The lady laughs. “Of course, as long as curfew is obeyed and the parents or guardians of the friends are okay with it.” Boyd nods and turns to go back down to the kitchen where the lady had set out a stack of fresh chocolate chip cookies. Isaac feels like she’s trying to win favor.

As long as she doesn’t hit him, he’s happy to just exist. He doesn’t need sweets or arbitrary rules.

Since Boyd asked the first of his embarrassing questions, Isaac feels like maybe the second one isn’t so bad either. He lowers his voice though so it won’t carry, and says, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

She looks at him in surprise and he steps back, thinking _stupid, stupid!_

He flinches, expecting to be reprimanded.

Instead, the lady throws her head back and laughs loud and throaty. “Laney Folsom,” she says, thrusting out her hand for him to shake, which he does gingerly. It’s soft, like she takes care of herself. He hides the fact that he wipes his own hand off on his pants.

“Shall we go find your friend now?” she asks. Isaac shrugs. It’s not like there’s anything else to do. Although, just from the first hour he’s spent with her, Laney is already an improvement over his father.

~ * ~

As soon as Deputy Votsky walks in, John sends him right back out again to talk to Stiles and Mrs. Hammerhill, who despite John’s best neighborly efforts truly is a bitter old bat. He hopes she’s a little less disrespectful toward his deputy than she was to his son. He’s not holding his breath.

The cologne in the tree house is worrisome because he doesn’t know how it got there. If it’s from Peter Hale, like he’s beginning to suspect—the park is only a few block away, as is the high school—then he has to worry about that predator setting his sights on his son.

John hopes Votsky can shed some light on it too, not the least of which because he is dating Peter’s niece and should be able to recognize and communicate if that particular scent is one Peter wears.

Right now though, he’s a little preoccupied talking to a frantic Dr. Bocelli.

Apparently, her dead body showed up again, at a hit and run in Redding. She reiterates that the body is not Scott McCall’s and leaves the calling of Melissa and Rafael to him while she deals with the red tape of moving the body back to Beacon County.

John sighs. The adrenaline rush from Stiles’ phone call is wearing off, and he feels his bones creak in protest as he tries to get his back to pop. He needs a six-day nap to deal with this freaking week.

Instead, he picks up his cell phone, unsurprised to see that it has only one bar of battery life left. He’ll have to dig out the charger Stiles gifted him last Father’s Day.

While he opens one of the drawers, he dials a number from memory.

Melissa answers on the second ring.

“Dr. Bocelli got her body back, and she’s still convinced that it’s not Scott. She’s in Redding right now, if you wanted to go out there. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be able to go with you.”

“It’s not Scott,” Melissa says, lowly, like it’s a secret.

Dumbly, John says, “What?”

“The body,” Melissa hisses. “It’s not Scott’s. He’s fine—they just put him in witness protection because they’re trying to catch the mole in the FBI.”

John sits back, blinks at the wall, thinking.

“I’m not going to identify a body that isn’t my son,” Melissa says, still quiet. “I’m sorry we had to deceive you, but it needs to be believable. John, are you listening?”

“What? Yes, yes, I’m still here. Can I ask something?” He waits for Melissa’s grunt of assent. “Why is Scott being used as bait for an FBI mole?”

Melissa sighs. “The mole reports to Gerard Argent. If they can catch whoever is feeding him information, they get their mole. John, I _need_ you to keep quiet about Scott. If this ploy fails, then my son really will be as good as dead.”

John rubs at his chest. That damn pain. He can’t imagine giving Stiles up like the McCalls have given up Scott even if it would save his life later. “I’ll keep mum,” he promises. His phone beeps, startling him. “Listen, I need to charge my phone now. Let me know if there’s anything you need from me.”

Melissa laughs, bitter. “What I need you can’t help with. Go, charge your phone. I’ll talk to you if I get Scott back today.”

They trade short goodbyes, and Melissa hangs up while John starts rifling through his desk’s drawers, searching for the charger. His phone flashes the ‘low battery’ sign at him, and he grumbles at it.

John finds the charger cable still in the obnoxious paper wrapping Stiles used, shoved deep into the corner of the top right hand drawer. Stiles, in his quest to be as annoying as possible—John still recalls the loud argument Stiles gave both of them for Mother and Father’s Days about why he shouldn’t be expected to spend his money on gifts for them when he was the best gift they would ever get—the cable is the longest one the store had in stock (and it’s a vibrant pink color that clashes with absolutely everything).

Joke’s on Stiles because now John can plug the cable into the only free socket _and_ still have enough length left to set his phone in the middle of his desk while it charges.

While it does that, John thinks he can squeeze in a quick nap before he falls on his face. Maybe it will help with the burning sensation in his eyes too.

His blotter makes a very flat pillow, but he doesn’t care. He can feel drool pooling on his lip but. He. Does. Not. Care.

Then, his desk phone rings loudly, and he jumps awake.

“Beacon County Sheriff’s Station, this is Sheriff Stilinski.”

“John Stilinski?” a soft-spoken woman says.

“Yes, ma’am.” John should know her, he thinks.

“This is Camilla—”

“Camilla Lahey,” John breathes, aware that he interrupted her. He hasn’t heard her voice in nearly six years. He fully expected the rumors about her death to be true.

She laughs bitterly. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name,” she says. “Camilla Crewe. My mother-in-law let me know you arrested my ex-husband. My son, Isaac—he’s fourteen. I want custody of him.”

John says the only thing he can: “Then come and get him.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: improper medical procedure. Please let me know if something too wrong stands out.
> 
> Note: Derek is subjected to an SAE again. This one is less described than the first.
> 
> It's June 1st! This is the first of the two chapters that I do have completed. If interested, check on [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/) for updates.
> 
> Thanks to all who read, subscribe, bookmark, and kudos, and double thanks to those that comment.


	21. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Derek suffers a panic attack during this chapter.

~ * ~

When Dr. Geyer finally allows Laura to sign Derek out, after going to the in-house pharmacy to fill what is essentially an over-the-counter pain medication prescription, it’s nearly noon. She is not surprised to find that Alice and Daniel are not waiting for them.

Benjamin probably called them to tell them about the break up. Sometimes he tells his parents everything and other times he doesn’t. He is inconsistent and Laura knows that contributed to the end of their relationship. There’s only so many times she could understand Alice asking about the decisions they made as a household—especially after a minor row with Benjamin.

Derek allows Lacey Folsom to push his wheelchair while Laura shoots off a quick text to her next-door neighbor asking for help with getting Derek up the stairs as they head to the parking lot. Chad responds with an affirmative, and Laura sends him a quick thank you. She waits until Lacey and another attendant help Derek into the front passenger seat and the wheelchair is folded into the backseat before she tells him that they’re going back to the apartment instead of the Votskys’ house.

“Did they release it as a crime scene?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sometime yesterday. Until Cora gets back from camp, you’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”

Laura knows when Cora returns, she’ll get the guest room and Derek will get Laura’s bed. Laura will sleep on the couch—if Benjamin doesn’t take it. Even if he does, she can use the air mattress Derek was using.

“My neighbor, you’ll meet him when we get there, will help you up the stairs.” Knowing Chad and his flair for the dramatic, he’ll probably sweep Derek off his feet and carry him across the threshold like a bodice-ripper book cover. She wonders if she should warn Derek, but she thinks it’ll be funny to see his face when it happens.

“Is Benjamin supposed to meet us there?” Derek asks. He has a look on his face, but Laura is too tired to interpret it. She won’t lie to him, she decides. He deserves the truth after all the bullshit he’s been through.

“Benjamin and I broke up.” Her chest hurts and it’s hard to breathe. Oh, holy hell, what’s wrong with her?

“Can I ask why?” Derek looks sad and scared, and no. Just no.

“We’ve never really fit right,” she says. “It has nothing to do with you.” She thinks about what Benjamin said before she kicked him out of her life. She’s still mad that he was angry at her for agreeing with one of the sensible things her mother said before he spouted an almost facsimile of the worst thing she’s ever said.

No matter what Derek was thinking when he ran, it isn’t his fault that Peter tracked him and assaulted him. To even imply that…Laura knows she will never take Benjamin back even if she does have to apologize for hitting him.

“Laura,” Derek says, and she realizes they are still sitting in the hospital’s parking lot.

She flushes and cranks the key in the ignition. “We’ll be okay,” she says. “Maybe not soon but someday.”

“Promise?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t promise the truth. We will be okay in spite of everything. That’s a fact.”

“Okay.” Derek turns his head to stare out of the window. Laura focuses on driving, fighting back a series of jaw-cracking yawns. She just can’t shake the tiredness in her bones, mentally and physically exhausted.

Thankfully, despite it being 1:00 on a Saturday, the streets are mostly empty, and they pass few other vehicles. Laura pulls up to the apartment quickly.

Her next door neighbor, Chad Moreno, is waiting by the picnic tables, as agreed upon in their earlier communication. He is whistling loudly, the notes clear when she shuts off the engine and opens her door. She waves him over. Derek refuses to look at either of them.

Chad was in the grade above her at school. But, while she feels old in her body, he looks even more youthful. She doesn’t feel envious—she doesn’t.

“Hey there, buddy,” Chad says to Derek, leaning down to grin at him. Laura forgot—how could she?—Chad is gay. His type usually leans more toward his own image: stereotypical surfer dude with long, bleached blonde locks and a deep, even tan. Once or twice she’s seen him hanging out with a guy that has nearly the same coloring as her brother.

Derek finally looks up, whispering, “Hi,” shyly.

“You ready to go?” Chad asks. He waits for Derek to nod before he reaches down to help him out of the car. They balance awkwardly for a long moment, and Laura swears she can see the scowl before Derek glares at Chad.

“No,” he says.

“Yes.” Chad nods. “Ups-a-daisy.” Derek yelps a little as he goes airborne. Exactly like a bodice-ripper, Laura thinks as she digs out the wheelchair. At least, aside from the initial shout of shock, Derek seems resigned to being carried up the steps.

Laura hurries up ahead of them. She has no idea what shape the deputies left her apartment in, but she doubts any of them took the time to dust.

Indeed, when she gets to the door, thankfully sans crime scene tape, she notices the smear of blood on the jamb. Inside, the dried puddle of blood sits accusatory. Fingerprint powder smudges the doorknob, and boot prints track through the apartment to the kitchen and back out again.

On the table in the kitchen, Laura finds Cora’s crayons scattered as if someone scooped them up just to dump them out. A half colored page sits askew.

And mixed in with the mess of her siblings’ abduction is the life she’s been sharing with Benjamin.

“You can put me down now,” she hears Derek tell Chad. “I can sit on the couch and keep my leg still.” He sounds sullen, petulant—childish. He should be nicer to Chad.

“Derek,” she scolds, returning to the living room. Her brother looks exhausted and in pain. “You don’t have to be rude to my neighbor.”

“I’m not being rude,” Derek protests. “It’s just—it’s obvious the apartment is bothering you. I don’t need to be carried everywhere. And I can help you clean.” He eyes his foot, and mournfully adds, “Maybe.”

“Better not, dude,” Chad says. “Best to stay off that foot.” He gently sets Derek onto the couch and hands him a throw pillow, which Derek tucks behind his back. Then, Chad turns to Laura. “I can help though. I don’t have anywhere to be until Ashton gets off work.”

“I appreciate it,” Laura tells him. “But this is probably something I should do by myself.”

“I can scrub the floor?” Chad offers.

Laura looks at where Derek is already dozing off, at the mess all around them, at the pictures of Benjamin and her hanging on the wall. “Fine,” she says. “Just scrubbing. And just until your brother gets home. Thank you.” She leaves to get a bucket so that she won’t see the pity in his eyes when he realizes that she’s going to erase every trace of her ex-boyfriend.

~ * ~

At camp, the hour immediately after lunch is dedicated to determining units’ projects. Cora hates it because her unit never does the projects she wants. Right now, she’s trying to argue for her super-potato idea, but she is being out-voted by apathetic monkeys and blind followers. Really, they _absolutely need_ to make pastel plants? Cora rolls her eyes. At least her idea has real-world application. The project everyone else wants to do has been done to death before.

She decides she’s going to ask to be moved to the Fichus Unit. Deciduous is full of unoriginal losers who hate her because, while she comes from a rich family, _she_ isn’t rich. Hell, even Willow Unit would be preferable right now. At least she would be near Liam.

“Really, Hale?” someone snorts when Cora, loudly and succinctly, tells the ringleader where she can shove her pastel carnations.

The unit’s counselor storms up to the table, glaring at Cora. He writes a note and tears it from his notebook with more force than is necessary. “Go speak with Director Calverson,” he commands, shoving the note into Cora’s chest.

Tentatively, she takes it. Well, she thinks, it solves her problem of needing to seek an audience with the director. Unfortunately, Calverson looks down on the use of strong language.

As soon as she’s out of sight of Deciduous Unit, Cora opens the note. She can’t understand Davids’ cramped script and refolds it neatly, more worried now.

Calverson is in the cafeteria helping to clear away the tables used for lunch when Cora finds her.

Without a word, Cora hands her the note and stands, hands behind her back, head bowed.

“Cora,” Calverson says after a lengthy silence, “can you tell me why Counselor Davids sent you to be disciplined?”

“Because I said a bad word?” Cora guesses. Davids’ handwriting is atrocious enough that Calverson doesn’t seem able to decipher it either. That makes Cora feel marginally better.

“What word?”

“‘Ass,’” Cora says innocently.

Calverson looks annoyed. “Just that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Actually, it was ‘fucking asshole.’

Calverson sighs and writes something in the empty space on the bottom of the note. “Take this back to Counselor Davids and then report back to me again.” She hands Cora the note. “And Cora?”

“Yes, Mrs. Calverson?”

“Don’t read it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Again, as soon as she’s out of sight of authority, Cora opens the note. Director Calverson, in much neater handwriting, requests that Counselor Davids meet with her later during free hours. Huh. Cora refuses to feel ashamed even if she still has a few trepidations regarding her near miss with the language. She might still get in trouble, but they can hardly make her leave: she hasn’t broken any rules, and it wasn’t a physical fight.

Okay, maybe she’s a bit more than worried.

Normally, it takes longer for Cora to have a meeting with the director and it’s usually to make sure she’s okay after a counselor has noticed the bullying she’s going through.

By the time she makes it back to Deciduous Unit, she is shaking, holding back tears.

Counselor Davids looks at her and scoffs. “Come to get your things, Hale?” he sneers. Wordlessly, Cora hands him the note from Director Calverson. Then, she turns on her heel and marches away again.

Her ‘things’ aren’t really hers anyway: a decoy composition notebook with half the pages ripped out and a pen running out of ink. She got them from the lost and found at her school before they were dismissed for the summer.

Cora has the only important ‘thing’ hanging around her neck. She grabs the keycard and clutches it as she heads back to the cafeteria.

Director Calverson is still moving tables when Cora opens the double doors again.

“Cora,” she says, waving to a cluster of chairs shoved in a corner. “Sit.”

As if Cora has any other choice when Call-Me-Tara and the assistant director, a woman named Myrtle of all things, are already sitting there. Cora swallows hard before perching on the seat next to Tara. She folds her hands in her lap and tries not to feel self-conscious with her torn-off jeans and spindly legs, especially with A.D. Myrtle’s shapely legs sticking out of her neatly hemmed shorts.

Director Calverson takes the last chair. “Cora, it has come to my attention that your unit, the Deciduous Unit, may not be the best fit for you.”

Cora relaxes a little.

“It is my recommendation then that you be placed into Willow Unit instead,” Director Calverson continues.

“What? No!” Cora looks to Tara to back her up, but Tara just stares impassively at Director Calverson. Cora sinks back down again. She barely keeps from crossing her arms.

“It is _my_ recommendation,” A.D. Myrtle says calmly, “that Cora Hale be placed into Fichus Unit. The exemplary intellect she exhibits more than qualifies her for a spot in our most advanced unit.” A.D. Myrtle grabs a manila folder from beneath her seat and flips it open. Cora recognizes her own handwriting on at least a dozen pages. “The genius she shows needs to be fostered, and that will not happen if she is placed in Willow Unit.”

“Before we can place Cora, we will need to contact her parents regarding the change in her unit. They may have a better understanding of where she should go.”

“My parents?” Cora glances at Tara to find that impassive stare trained on her. Cora looks away. “My parents aren’t in charge of me anymore. I live with my guardian, Laura Hale, my older sister. You’ll have to call her.”

“Not according to your paperwork,” Director Calverson says.

Tara shakes her head, and her eyes sparkle with interest. “Cora’s parents are part of an ongoing investigation. Her guardianship has been entrusted to her sister. Go ahead, call Laura Hale. Ask her where you think Cora should be placed.” Tara pulls out a small steno pad, scribbles Laura’s number, tears the sheet out, and hands it to Director Calverson.

Director Calverson excuses herself while A.D. Myrtle shoots a knowing smile at Tara.

“If your sister knows you at all,” A.D. Myrtle says to Cora, “you may just get to do your workup on the potato. It’s not officially voted on yet, but Fichus Unit was close to agreeing on a similar concept to your proposal. You’ll also get to work with Counselor Adders.”

Cora perks up at that. Counselor Adders is Tara’s daughter and her favorite instructor. Oh, that would be fun indeed. Cora hasn’t directly been in any of Counselor Adders’ units since she was nine and their theme had something to do with the _Harry Potter_ books. Cora had been sorted into Counselor Adders’ group—unofficially known as the _Slytherin_ House. That was the only year the Sacramento Bitches left her alone since only one of them (a shy, quiet girl on their fringes) was sorted into _Slytherin_ too. Cora hasn’t worked with those kids in _years_.

After that first ‘smart’ unit, Mom insisted—and called the camp to tell them too—that Cora wasn’t as smart as the counselors claimed she was.

Cora cried for a month when she realized the ‘potential’ she’d shown would never be given a chance all because Mom thought only Laura had any brains.

Director Calverson returns and retakes her seat. She primly folds her hands and crosses her legs.

“Well,” she finally says after a long silence.

“Well what?” A.D. Myrtle demands.

“Laura Hale said two things. The first: let Cora choose where she will go.” Cora straightens her spine, and Tara clamps a hand onto her shoulder. “The second thing she said is if she still had to decide for Cora, Fichus Unit is where she belongs. Then, she hung up on me.”

Cora wants to shout in joy. Laura _does_ know something about her! She also kind of wants to laugh at the insulted look Director Calverson has on her face. Tara squeezes Cora’s shoulder in warning.

“Well, that’s settled then,” A.D. Myrtle says. “Cora, what unit do you want to placed in?”

“Fichus,” Cora says without hesitation. A.D. Myrtle smirks, triumphant, while Director Calverson nods.

“Well then, Cora. If you’ll go with Mrs. Mason, we’ll get you settled in Fichus Unit.”

Dismissed, Cora stands up. She offers her hand to Director Calverson, who gingerly shakes it, before she turns to follow A.D. Myrtle down the hallway past Davids’ room and to the end of the hallway.

The door A.D. Myrtle stops in front of is decorated by a painted rainbow complete with construction paper butterflies and tissue paper flowers.

“This is it,” A.D. Myrtle says. She throws open the door and steps back quickly. A blast of confetti rains down, and from inside the room, Cora can hear the students jeering loudly.

“Missed me!” A.D. Myrtle shouts, and someone louder shouts back, “I won’t miss tonight!”

The whole room bursts into a chorus of _oohs,_ catcalls, and whistles. Cora pulls back, thinking, for the first time, that this is a grave mistake. She isn’t ready to be pulled into the juvenile mess of more pre-teens. What if they decide to bully her too? A.D. Myrtle winks at her and propels her through the door. The room goes silent for a brief breath of a moment before a boy with spiky black hair and a baggy blue t-shirt too large for his thin frame leaps to his feet and screams, “Fresh meat!”

Immediately, the cry is taken up by the other students, and all Cora hears is those two words. She glares with all her might at the counselor doing nothing to stop the children.

Counselor Adders watches the children with interest, and Cora frowns at her. She doesn’t recall her being this…unprofessional last time. She is disappointed.

She tugs at A.D. Myrtle’s sleeve and opens her mouth to ask to go to Willow Unit—at least she’d have a friend there—when the same boy that started the chant bounds over to her and grabs her hand.

“Fresh meat’s got a name,” he says loudly. “Let’s learn it!”

“Ask her nicely,” Counselor Adders says. “And if she declines, let her be. Remember, Jason, we have to be nice to everyone before they have to be to us.”

“Except your fiancée, apparently,” A.D. Myrtle says.

Counselor Adders smiles. “Dear, if you wanted nice, you asked the wrong lady to marry you.”

“I’m Jason,” the spiky-haired boy says, distracting Cora. She bites her tongue so that she doesn’t tell him her name right away too. He nods in understanding. “We never get any new faces here in Fichus. Not unless they’re high schoolers and then they’re ‘too cool’ for us.”

“I’m Cora,” she bursts out, sticking out her hand.

Jason grins, shaking it. “Welcome, Cora.”

~ * ~

Laura and her weird neighbor are gone when Derek wakes up, cricked neck and a thin afghan spread over him. The apartment smells like Pine-Sol and bleach. Derek wrinkles his nose, fighting a sneeze. Ugh.

The wheelchair has been unfolded and left by the couch in easy reach. Derek scowls at it. He needs to use the bathroom, but he doesn’t trust himself to hop that far nor does he think it will be an easy task to get himself into the chair and wheel to the bathroom, much less transfer to the stool.

He sighs, resigned to holding his urge until Laura comes back. She is going to be back, isn’t she?

Derek glances around the apartment, worried when he can’t see a note from his sister. Maybe that means she won’t be long?

Irrational that it is, Derek is scared to be alone. Every time he is alone (or with only Cora) he is attacked.

Mr. Argent is still in jail. Peter is back in jail. Did Kate get out? Derek runs through his memories, but he can’t recall if Laura said anything about her at all.

His lungs freeze and his heart beat increases.

Blind panic. That’s what he’s feeling. It shortens his breath until it whistles in his chest and he is lightheaded. His vision grays out, and he knows he’s vulnerable, which only makes his panic worse until he blacks out for—he doesn’t know how long. He comes to with Laura tapping his face and calling his name.

He sits up suddenly, throwing his arms around her and squeezing with all the power of a weakened child. Embarrassingly, he realizes that in his panic he lost control of his bladder and pissed himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, panting against Laura’s neck. Surely he should have caught his breath by now?

“No, no,” Laura murmurs into his hair. “It’s all right. Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

“I couldn’t see you when I woke up.”

Laura pats at him, running her hands up and down his back. “I needed to call Benjamin’s mom to come get his stuff. I didn’t want to wake you, so I was outside. I should have left a note or something for you. I just wasn’t going to be long, maybe a couple of minutes.”

“I feel so pathetic,” Derek confesses. “Like, I know you shouldn’t have to leave a note anytime you need privacy. It’s incredibly selfish of me to ask that of you.”

“You just had a panic attack. I don’t think it’s selfish of you or that you’re pathetic just for wanting reassurance. That is definitely something I can do for you.”

“I feel pathetic all the time.” Derek gestures down at his wet crotch. “I thought you weren’t coming back at all and this happened. How can you look at me and still say you love me?”

Slowly, Laura rises until she can drop a telegraphed kiss on his forehead, giving him the time he needs to decide to accept it or not. He doesn’t flinch when her lips make contact, but it takes everything in him to hold still for her. “I love you because I see you,” she says. “I see you fighting to keep Cora safe from Mom and Dad. I see you overcoming the obstacles Mom and Dad put in your way. I see _you_ , Derek, and that is why I love you.”

She moves away only to return with the wheelchair. Derek lets her help him into it. It takes a little bit of maneuvering, but the chair and Derek make it through the bathroom door with minimal discomfort.

“I’ll dig out some clothes for you but I think you’d really like a shower now, huh?”

Derek doesn’t respond. Instead, he stares wide-eyed at the foot stool Laura has set in her bathtub.

“I figured since you’ve got to stay off your foot, it would be easier with something to sit on.”

“I could have sat on the edge of the tub,” Derek says. “But—thank you. This is nice.” He lifts his leg onto the edge of the tub so that he can remove the cast. He grimaces at the dampness that managed to make it down to the top of the walking cast. He apologizes about Laura’s couch and she waves it away.

“It’ll clean,” she says as she takes the cast, probably to wash it too. She helps Derek into the tub and waits until he’s sitting down, working on the fly of his jeans before she digs out a towel and leaves. “Call if you need anything.”

Derek pulls the shower curtain closed and starts working his jeans off his body, one leg at a time. It’s difficult because he remains sitting for as long as he can before he balances on his good foot to quickly yank off the garment. Then he has to do it all over again with his boxer shorts.

Once he’s completely nude, he folds his clothes into a semi-neat pile and leaves them next to the hamper, not sure if Laura wants his contaminated clothing touching hers. She probably doesn’t care, but he does not want to risk it.

His hands are shaking and he’s cold, a lingering side effect of his panic attack. Hot water should help. He cranks on the faucet and endures a minute and a half of a blast of cold water that gradually warms up.

A hot shower isn’t something Derek indulges often; all too aware that the longer he takes, the more money his parents can claim they spent on him. He doesn’t think Laura truly cares, but he still hurries, washing sweat and blood and urine and _Peter_ from his skin. He scrubs his hands thoroughly and then gently washes his hair.

By the time he’s done, he estimates about ten minutes have passed. He hadn’t heard the door open or close, but Laura’s been and gone again, the promised clothing folded neatly on the seat of the wheelchair.

The clothes Laura left for him must be new since his backpack is still in evidence at the Sheriff’s Station and neither the shirt nor pants look like they would fit Benjamin. He sniffs them anyway, relieved when they only smell like detergent instead of Peter’s cologne.

Derek feels guilty because the clothes, a black polo shirt, navy blue basketball shorts, black boxers, and an orange, left-foot flip-flop, mean that Laura is spending money she doesn’t have on him. He can’t even go out and get a job to help her out—not with his impending surgery.

He manages to dry off and dress without further injuring himself. Laura left the cast balanced over the bowl of the sink, and he straps it back on. It’s still damp, but it smells only of the citrus dish soap Laura uses, so he doesn’t mind.

Ready now, he needs the wheelchair. He reaches for it, but it must have rolled when he took the clothes, and it’s too far for him to grab without hopping out onto the wet floor.

“Laura?” he calls. He waits patiently for a few seconds, but when she doesn’t respond, the panic comes back. “Laura!” he screams, afraid that he’ll black out again with nothing to break his fall.

“Here,” Laura calls back, opening the door, pushing the wheelchair up to the tub, and holding it steady while Derek climbs on. She wheels him out to the couch, but Derek opts to stay in the chair while she sits next to him on the coffee table. “Sorry, I was on the phone. Apparently the counselors at Cora’s camp needed help placing her this year.”

“That’s all?” Derek asks mildly. He knows Cora is bullied at camp. He’s had to pretend to be Dad on the phone with them so many times just because Mom and Dad didn’t care enough to be there for Cora. He’d tried only once to help her in person (Mom had let him tag along a couple of years ago when she dropped Cora off because Derek had pretended to have a convention to go to). It had backfired spectacularly and Cora later told him the violence became physical that year. Even when pressed, she refused to explain why.

He does not trust Director Calverson with his sister’s care either, but the camp she chooses to host is intellectually stimulating—and Cora is brilliant.

Laura shrugs. “They wanted her to go to either Willow or Fichus Unit this time.”

“Fichus,” Derek says. “Willow Unit is basically remedial and Cora would be wasting away.”

“That’s what I thought,” Laura agrees. “I remember when Mom complained about Camp Bennington calling her, trying to convince her to put Cora in their gifted programs.”

“Cora cried,” Derek says. He remembers having to reassure his sister after the camp counselors and the director stopped trying. “Mom wouldn’t let her because she didn’t think Cora was ‘smart enough.’”

“Mom really is a bitch, isn’t she?” Laura asks. It feels rhetorical, so Derek stays quiet. A few moments later, Laura shakes herself. “Well, Cora is going to finish camp happy at least.”

“And what about you? Do you really want to take on the responsibility of being our guardian? Won’t that keep you from accomplishing what you want?”

Laura blows out a breath. “Right now what I want is to make sure you and Cora have someone you can trust and rely on. I do plan on leaving Beacon Hills sometime soon.” She shrugs, trailing off

“But even that is probably contingent on the trials,” Derek finishes for her. He covers his eyes. If there are trials for Peter, Kate, and Mr. Argent, he will be called to testify. Hell, he’ll probably have to testify at some kind of pretrial hearing sooner than later ( _Law & Order_ reruns have informed him of this). It’s not something he is ready for. Even just seeing Peter had made him panic—and that allowed Peter to attack him again. What if Peter does that at the trial too? He’s already proven that he can’t stop raping Derek even when he gets in trouble for it. Derek really needs to stop thinking about this.

He turns to Laura and asks, “Can you tell me the real reason you and Benjamin broke up?” He knows that it is somehow related to him, despite Laura’s insistence that it isn’t.

“I told, it has nothing to do with you,” she tries again. She won’t look him in the eye though, studying her fingernails with far too much enthusiasm for this conversation. She picks off more of her polish, flicking the flakes onto the floor with a practiced casualness

“Did I accelerate it?” he asks softly. Guilt flashes across her face.

“Benjamin said something that made me reevaluate our relationship. I decided we had stagnated and that it was mutually beneficial to part ways.”

She’s lying. About what, Derek doesn’t know, and he doubts that he will get a true answer from her. She seems to be under the assumption that she’s protecting him from something. Surely her breakup wasn’t that horrendous? He can’t help but notice that all the photos featuring Benjamin are missing from the walls, and his toiletries aren’t in the bathroom anymore. And there was that thing Laura said about calling Mrs. Votsky to collect Benjamin’s things. Whatever Benjamin said must have been bad based on Laura’s response.

“Is the Sheriff still going to have the deputies protect us?”

“I don’t know. All the people we were supposed to be protected from are still in jail. The only one likely to get out again before any sort of trial is Kate Argent, and that won’t be until Monday.”

“Seems like everything’s supposed to happen Monday. Your hearing. My surgery.”

“Yep, and we still have tomorrow to get through.”

Easy enough for Laura to do—she’s not in a wheelchair with instructions to remain still. If she gets the urge, she can get up and walk away. Derek doesn’t have that choice, and he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who jumped off his roof. He kept pushing himself even after he realized his foot was more than sprained. He needs the surgery because he didn’t go to the clinic ad have it looked at immediately.

He can be bitter all he likes, but he’d better not complain about it when it’s his fault alone.

“Stop that,” Laura says, annoyed. “I can see your face changing into that ‘it’s my fault’ pout. It is not your fault, so stop it.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I know you, Derek. You’re my brother. You used to follow me around everywhere. I learned how to read you. You may be older and getting scruffy—” Laura chucks his chin gently, another telegraphed movement “—but I can still read you just fine.”

That’s a lie, Derek thinks. It has to be. If Laura can read him, know his thoughts by the emotions on his face…How could she have looked at him and not seen that something was very wrong?

“Could you—” his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again, “Did you notice when—when Peter—”

Laura blinks steadily. “Yes, Derek, I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what and no one—not even you—would tell me what. I’m sorry I didn’t push harder, that I wasn’t financially stable enough to take you away from that situation.”

“You’re no more financially stable now,” Derek points out. Laura growls at him. “Anyway, I didn’t tell you about Peter because he threatened to do the same to Cora if I told. I don’t know if he really meant it because wouldn’t he have started raping her too when it was obvious he could get away with doing that to me?”

“Peter threatened you with hurting Cora?”

Derek frowns at Laura. “I thought I told you that before,” he says. Why does she sound shocked? “Kate threatened to kill everyone I loved, so at least that was different.”

“Peter threatened to—rape—Cora after he had already raped you?”

Derek sighs, exasperated. “Yes. What’s so hard to believe about that?”

“It’s just—why wouldn’t he have gone after her anyway? Peter is a predator. Hell, you know this!”

“You want to know why Peter is so fixated on me?”

Laura nods. “I also want to know why the ever loving _fuck_ Talia and James did nothing.”

Derek shrugs. “Mom never liked Cora or me as much as she liked you.” He pauses. He can recall Mom walking in on Peter and him when he was ten—Peter had been trying to convince Derek to put him in his mouth—and walking back out again without saying anything. The look of glee on Peter’s face had truly frightened him.

“Can we please not talk about this anymore?” he asks. “I’m not feeling up to it.”

Laura nods. “Thank you for telling me that,” she says, tightly, like she’s trying not to cry. “Do you want to watch some TV or just rest?”

Derek thinks of Mrs. Halvershiem and her offer to be an ally for him during this painful and confusing time. It would require Laura to call her weird friend to carry him down the stairs, but, “Can we go for ice cream?”

“ _Luana’s_?”

He nods.

“Let me call Chad. Maybe he and his brother would like to join us.”

“Maybe,” Derek agrees. “Couldn’t hurt.”

Laura claps her hands. “Hang tight while I dig out some money. Then, I’ll call Chad.” She jumps up and runs to the kitchen.

Derek stares down at the wheelchair morosely. “Where am I supposed to go?” he wonders out loud.

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see what I'm currently working on, check out [Voting Roulette](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9396509/chapters/21271679). That's where a lot of these "new" stories are coming from.


	22. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance that there are no Hales featured in this chapter.
> 
> No warnings that I can think of (aside from Stiles hitting Scott). If you think I've forgotten to warn for something, don't hesitate to drop a line.
> 
> My [Tumblr](https://1989dreamer.tumblr.com).

~ * ~

Gerard is in the middle of his afternoon meditation when Kali taps on the bars to his cell.

“Stand and spread them,” she says smugly. She enjoys this aspect of her job a bit much, Gerard thinks.

“You aren’t supposed to be able to do this,” he reminds her. Since he is a male prisoner and she is a female guard. Arbitrary rules that usually are followed for fear of litigation.

Kali drops her niceties and barks, “Assume the position.”

Gerard sighs to show her how inconvenienced he is by her, not that she particularly cares, and dutifully puts his hands behind his head and sets his feet shoulder-width apart. Kali unlocks the cell door and steps through quickly. She pats at him, running her hands up and down the stupid orange jumpsuit the FBI has forced him to don.

She is smooth, movements fluid, but Gerard still feels it when she slips a folded piece of paper into the front of his top.

“See you in two hours,” she sing-songs before leaving, locking the cell behind her.

Gerard waits almost an hour before he slides the paper down his sleeve until he can palm it. Then, he kneels as if in prayer, hands on the cot while he blocks the camera’s view of the page.

The paper is mostly empty, and Gerard is disgusted by the outrageous risk taken by Kali to slip him this note. Then the words register and he has to fight the scowl off his face.

That McCall brat is still alive.

It means that Deucalion either failed to kill him or more likely didn’t even try. He knew there was a reason the Hales were able to escape so easily when left with Deucalion.

Lately, it seems as if his longtime friend is less interested in helping Gerard with the business side of their operation.

Gerard crumples the paper in his fist. If Deucalion has indeed betrayed him, Gerard is now in the unique position of having to kill his hit man. He could always see if Victoria would be interested. Her little stunt with the Hale boy’s blood ought to have been discovered by now, and she will be looking for employment.

He will need to have Julia contact her as soon as possible. Perhaps he can convince the FBI guards to schedule a meeting with his lawyer today. It’s Saturday. Nothing odd about a defense attorney meeting her client on a day when other attorneys usually aren’t busy.

Before he can call for a guard, hopefully not Kali and her smug, endangering visage, the door to his cell is opened and this branch of the FBI’s director steps into the room. He is flanked by two other agents.

“Gerard Argent,” Carson Taylor says coldly.

“Agent,” Gerard replies easily. This dance is familiar. Ever since the agent was wet behind the ears, Gerard has been taunting him with an unsolvable crime regime. The icing on Gerard’s cake was the murder of Taylor’s family—his boy, who looked so much like the agent, and the boy’s darling wife and daughter. Gerard only wishes he could have been behind Taylor’s wife’s demise as well, but alas, cancer had its hooks in her before he could order her death.

Taylor has an edge of calm beneath his cold exterior, and Gerard is puzzled. Whenever he and Taylor meet, the man cannot hide his grief and anguish and absolute disgust for Gerard.

The paper in Gerard’s hand digs into his palm, and he thinks of the words, of the fact that Scott McCall is still alive.

What if Taylor’s son is still alive too?

Gerard’s whole body goes rigid, cold, numb. What if Deucalion lied about knocking off the mini-Taylors? Just how long has Deucalion been misleading Gerard, leaving his enemies and their collateral alive and able to come back to haunt him?

“Place your hands on your head and step back.”

Gerard can feel his eye twitching. The paper is crumpled into a tight ball in his palm and he can conceal it. That isn’t what is worrisome.

What’s bothering him is the timing of the search. Kali is the only visitor he has had today. It isn’t a coincidence.

“Spread your legs,” Taylor orders him. When Gerard doesn’t move, the two goons move forward to grab his arms and drag him to the wall. The taller agent, a man with a particularly brutish face, kicks Gerard’s feet apart.

“He said spread ‘em, fucker,” the man growls in his ear.

“Back off, Monroe,” Taylor says mildly. “We’re just here to have a conversation, not an interrogation.”

“If that’s a conversation,” Gerard says, with a cold smile, “then you’ll need a few more interrogation tactics, I’m afraid.”

“Got it, boss,” the other agent says, grabbing Gerard’s hand and prying the paper from his cuff.

“Good work, Williams.” Taylor unfolds the note. “Hmm. Seems we have indeed discovered our mole.”

It is not often that Gerard feels sick to his stomach, long outgrown that nervousness that comes with doing things that most people believe are wrong.

Seeing the paper in Taylor’s hands makes his whole body shake with anger and fear. If they’ve found Kali, then they have already gotten to Deucalion. There is a lot of information Deucalion can give interested parties.

“Mr. Argent, place your hands above your head and face the wall. We are conducting a search of this cell and your person. If we find more evidence linking you to the hired hit on Agent Rafael McCall’s son, Scott McCall, your charges will be amended to reflect those transgressions. Additionally, should we discover more evidence of the mole’s communication with you, your sentence will be increased accordingly.”

Gerard remains silent. Nothing he says could help him right now. In fact, if he does speak up, it could only make this worse.

If Gerard ever sees either Kali or Deucalion again, it will be because he is killing them.

Taylor smirks at him, smug. “Your whole operation is crashing down around your ears.” He steps closer to Gerard, snapping his fingers by his ear. “Can you feel your life ending? All those people’s lives you’ve ruined and you’re finally getting a taste of it.”

Indeed, Gerard can feel his life slipping away. The only way out is through, but it’s dark and he’s old. Gerard doesn’t move as his cell is torn apart around him. No way out but through, he repeats to himself. No way out but through.

~ * ~

The car ride home is boring. Dad still won’t say anything and Scott doesn’t want to talk anyway. Rock climbing isn’t any fun when Allison isn’t there and Dad just kept taking pictures of him despite only needing one or two for proof. It’s unsettling, being the center of Dad’s attention. Scott is used to him cutting visits short for one reason or another, usually something to do with work.

At least he got to talk to Mom when they were at the rock climbing studio. Scott doesn’t remember the name of the town—hell, he doesn’t even remember the name of the town where Araya and Severo run their safe house—but it doesn’t matter: he’s going home.

All he’d gotten to say was, “Hey, Mom, it’s me,” before she was blubbering in his ear.

It was weird to hear Mom crying. Scott is used to Mom being the strong one. He tries comforting her, reminding her that he’s only been gone for about a day and a half.

“That’s still too long to be without my baby.”

He keeps replaying her words over and over. It makes him madder at Dad because Dad chose alcohol over him. Dad is _always_ choosing something over him.

It really sucks to always be the least important thing in Dad’s life.

At last, Beacon Hills comes into view, and Scott finds his mood lightening. As soon as he gets hugged to death by Mom, he’s going to hunt Stiles down and let his best friend know that he’s still here. Then, he’s going to sneak Allison away from work and go rock climbing again.

“You’re awfully quiet for someone coming back to life,” Dad jokes as they pass the Quik-Mart gas stop. His words fall flat.

“I was never dead,” Scott says to his reflection in the passenger side mirror. “It was just a ploy to help you with your job.”

“Hey,” Dad says sharply, grabbing Scott’s shoulder to turn him. “You agreed to do this over both your mother’s and my objections. Don’t you blame us for your bleeding heart.”

“You could have said no!” Scott shouts. “You should have! Mom should have too. Why didn’t you?”

Dad sighs. “I don’t know why,” he says. “Maybe I saw something in you and wanted to give you a chance to show it to us all.”

Before Scott can reply to that, they pull into Mom’s driveway. Mom is standing on the porch, hands clasped, smiling brightly. Scott waits for Dad to park before he shoves the door open and jumps out.

“You’re full of shit,” he says, and lets the door slam shut.

~ * ~

Dad falls asleep on the couch downstairs while the deputy he sent earlier makes a cup of tea for Mom. Stiles trails after him, following Deputy Votsky to his parents’ bedroom.

Mom lies curled on her side, her phone by her hand. While Votsky helps Mom sit up, Stiles grabs her phone to check if anyone from the bakery has called.

He expects the text from Lydia stating that everything is okay at _Kitchen Fresh_ and the one from Danny wishing his mom a speedy recovery and not to worry, they have everything under control. But the one from Mrs. McCall is odd.

It’s unread, but Stiles doesn’t know if Mom is in the right state of mind to deal with any more fallout from Scott’s death.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Votsky says to Mom. Stiles rolls his eyes at the babying tone the deputy is using.

He opens the message and the air in his lungs freeze.

Three simple words.

Scott. Is. Alive.

Stiles drops the phone to the floor, Distantly, he hears Votsky ask if he’s okay.

“Scott,” Stiles says through numb lips. “Scott’s alive.” His head spins and he looks at Mom, who looks back at him with a similar shell-shocked expression. “Scott’s alive.”

~ * ~

Scott survives the bone-crushing hug Mom gives him, endures the million slobbering kisses she presses to his forehead and cheeks, and basks in the fact that here is a parent who loves him without question.

It’s still weird to see her crying, so he keeps saying, “I’m here. I’m okay,” which only makes her cry harder.

“You are never leaving again,” she says. It sounds like a promise, like a threat.

“But what about college?” he asks. “What happens then?”

“Honey, that’s years away. I’m sure you’ll feel differently when the times comes.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now?” Dad interrupts, and Mom pins him with a glare so full of hate Dad should have keeled over immediately.

“I’m working a split,” she spits. “Obviously. Did you think I would miss my baby coming home?”

“Is that a comment on me as a father?” Dad shoots back. “I wonder who banished me from the house, told me I wasn’t welcome, had fucking CPS watching me when I was allowed to visit.”

“I wonder who drank to the point of blacking out, who hit my child and passed out on the fucking couch, who used to yell insults at me when I stood up to his hand? You want sympathy, Rafael? Earn it.”

Mom points at the door, her finger shaking wildly. Scott steps to her side, places a hand on her shoulder. He can feel the tremors racking her body.

“I’m trying,” Dad says, defeated. He’s back to looking small and tired. “I’m trying, but no one is letting me forget my past.”

“That’s because you’re trying to act as though it never happened,” Scott says. “Learn from it. Admit you screwed up. Do better next time. Don’t expect Mom or me to forgive you just because you want us to.”

“Until that time, there is the door,” Mom adds.

Dad wavers on his feet before finally walking to the door. He pauses, hand on the knob. “I want to say one thing.” His voice is choked, as if he might start crying at any moment. “I am not the one who gave up on this family. I would thank you to remember that.”

“Always the victim,” Mom says. “You may not have been ‘the one who gave up on this family’ but you sure as hell are the reason we aren’t a family anymore.”

Dad slams the door behind him when he storms out.

Mom runs to the door and throws it open. “Don’t you dare take _my_ car!” she yells.

“You know what, Melissa?” Dad snaps. Mom screams in anger at whatever he did.

Scott hears a few ‘fucking asshole’s thrown in the furious tirade Mom’s having. Dad marches away from the house, head held high while Mom shoves a ladder against the side of the house.

“What happened?” Scott asks.

“Your _father_ ,” Mom says, “threw _my_ keys on the roof.”

“Do you want me to get them down for you?” Scott knows Mom’s afraid of heights—it’s probably why Dad threw them up there.

“No,” Mom says. “I’ll get them down myself. Go see Stiles. I know you’re waiting for that.”

“Mom, it’ll take me just a couple of minutes to get them down.”

In the middle of Mom’s protest, Scott springs up the ladder, locates the keys, stuffs them in his pocket, and descends to the ground. Mom smacks his arm before pulling him into a tight hug and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she says. “Do you want me to drive you to the bakery?”

“Yes please.”

~ * ~

Stiles leaves Votsky looking after his mom. He’d tried to get her to respond to him after Mrs. McCall’s bombshell, but she looked through him with a blank expression. It hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Dad is still asleep on the couch, and Stiles checks his phone. No text from Mrs. McCall which means either Mom’s supposed to share the news—highly unlikely—or Dad already knew.

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to deal with that betrayal, so he heads down to the bakery instead, back to the familiar smells and sounds. Even if Scott still isn’t there. He has no idea what Scott plans to do with his reemergence from the dead. Stiles is selfish enough to hope that Scott comes nowhere near him.

He takes the Jeep, aware that he’s too young to drive especially without a guardian in the vehicle with him, but mad enough to do it anyway. Hey, Laura Hale already had him drive Derek to therapy. It’s not his fault that everyone forgets he isn’t old enough yet.

He still parks in the alleyway because while he’s pissed off enough to steal his mom’s keys, he’s not stupid enough to be caught by his dad’s deputies.

When he walks in the back door, he finds Allison and one of the new hires—Erica, he thinks, the only girl—rolling out _kolache_ dough, his mom’s recipe propped between them.

He thought Erica was supposed to be a cashier, like Lydia and Allison, but they’ve been so shorthanded that they must have been reassigned.

Stiles wanders out to the main room, scanning the faces of the milling customers. There’s something to be said for excitement in this town: it drums up business. There are a lot of regulars Stiles sees, and a few new faces. He scowls at them all.

Danny is floating amongst the bodies, helping little old ladies (and middle aged moms) reach for pastries that are ‘just out of reach.’ He has a wide smile, flashing his dimples left and right. The patience of that boy.

Lydia rings everyone through with a plastered on smile and a clipped, “Have a nice day.” That’s normal at least.

She catches sight of Stiles at the same time that Allison pokes her head from the kitchen, calling his name.

He goes back to her, noting the way she has a smudge of flour high on one cheek, like she wiped away a tear.

A stab of guilt presses down in Stiles’ stomach. For all that he’s angry and sad and betrayed, he realizes that he never spared a thought for how Allison, Scott’s _girlfriend_ , would feel. And yet here she is, working and pretending that nothing is wrong when Stiles’ own mother can’t even get out of bed.

Stiles pulls her into a hug and squeezes as hard as he can. “Thank you,” he whispers in her ear. He can sense her confusion, but she holds on and hugs him back just as tight.

When he can finally pull away, he checks over everything; does a quick inventory for Monday’s order; checks stock levels of premade breads and sweet rolls. Everything looks good.

He waves Lydia and Danny into the kitchen, smiling and apologizing to the large crowd that it’ll be just one moment before someone can help them.

Then, he turns to his mom’s workers, his classmates. He starts by thanking them for being here.

“We will not be open tomorrow. And I will be calling in the second crew to help until my mom is back on her feet. We’ll finish out today, but again, you’ve got tomorrow off. I’ll text you tomorrow night if we’ll be open Monday.”

He thanks them again and dismisses them.

Someone clears their throat before anyone moves, and Stiles turns to the doorway, a customer-friendly reprimand on his lips.

He falters and ends up swallowing wrong and coughing so hard Danny has to pound his back.

“What,” Stiles says when he can breathe again, “are you doing here?”

Scott shrugs, grinning slowly. “I’m home.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No,” he says slowly, like Scott’s an idiot. “What are you doing here at the bakery?”

Scott’s smile wavers. “I wanted to see you, all of you.”

It only takes two steps before Stiles’ fist can smash into Scott’s jaw.

“Welcome back,” he says coldly.

~ * ~

Allison screams when Stiles’ fist impacts Scott’s jaw. Scott drops with a short yelp while Stiles stalks away from him. Immediately, Danny kneels next to Scott while Lydia shoots all of them a worried glance before heading out to deal with the customers still wandering the floor.

Allison is frozen, staring at her presumed-to-be-dead boyfriend.

“Was this a joke?” she asks, hating the watery quality of her voice. She’s stronger than that. She knows she is. Scott looks at her, sincerity in his eyes—she turns away, unable to handle it.

“No,” Scott says softly. “It was staged because the FBI needed to catch a bad man.”

“Why did you have to die?” Allison can’t make herself look at Scott right now because her head and heart hurt too much. “Who was the bad man?” The silence blares in her ears until she forces herself to look at Scott.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, blinking his eyes rapidly. “It was a mole in the FBI.”

Allison stops breathing for a long moment because Scott just lied to her. It’s his tell, blinking when he lies. He knows exactly who he was helping catch out and he lied to her. If Stiles doesn’t hit him again, she just might.

Through gritted teeth, Allison says, “Don’t lie, Scott. Not to me.”

“Fine,” Scott says. “I’m not lying about the mole in the FBI though. I don’t know who that is but the bad guy I was helping to catch was your grandfather. Gerard Argent.”

The sinking feeling in Allison’s stomach makes her queasy. Her grandfather? The FBI? She doesn’t understand. What does her grandfather, a kindly old man who runs a large dude ranch in Idaho have to do with a mole in the FBI?

Scott isn’t lying this time, his eyes open, unblinking.

“You had to fake your death because of my grandfather?”

Allison hasn’t seen her grandfather in nearly five years—aside from his foray into the bakery on Thursday. She doesn’t know how he knew she worked there. As far as she knows, her father isn’t in contact with his father. In fact, she was positive that Kate was staying with them because she’d had a falling out with Gerard like Allison’s dad did.

“Yes, that’s it exactly.” Scott nods enthusiastically. “Your grandfather’s accomplice is his hit man—”

“Deuc is a hit man?” Allison’s world is rocking wildly. First, her grandfather has spies in the FBI and now his oldest friend is a hit man?

“Deuc? Who’s Deuc? Oh, is he the British guy? Yeah, he’s totally a hit man, except not really.”

Stiles snorts. “How can you be a hit man only not really, Scott? Either you are or you aren’t.”

Scott looks flustered. “He pretends to kill people. Like, he just puts make up on them and then takes pictures while they pretend to be dead. And then the person goes into Witness Protection.”

“Is that what you did, Scott?” Lydia’s voice sounds brittle and scared, not at all what Allison has come to expect from her best friend. There are a few people still picking out baked goods, but the bakery has emptied considerably since Scott showed up. Allison isn’t sure why. The return of Scott should be making the bakery buzz with activity as it did when the Hales’ deepest secrets were exposed, not die down like it’s doing now. “Is that why it’s all over town that you’re dead but you’re still here in front of us?”

“Yeah, yes. That’s it exactly. I went into Witness Protection for a day and a half.”

“Scott,” Lydia says, “people don’t come back from Witness Protection, not until every threat to them is gone. It takes years or it never happens. You can’t just go for a day.”

“But,” Scott says, “but I wasn’t supposed to stay dead.”

“Excuse me?!” Stiles says.

Scott grins at them until he notices not a one of them looks happy. His smile fades quickly. “I was supposed to be exposed as alive so that the agents could trace the information back to Gerard Argent. I was never supposed to be really gone.”

Stiles moves at the same time Allison does, but to her surprise instead of punching Scott again, they both just embrace him. Danny and Lydia join in too. Erica eyes them all but stays by the counter, paused in filling the _kolaches_.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” Scott says. “They wouldn’t let me take my phone.”

Allison clings tighter. “I don’t ever want to feel like I’ve lost you ever again,” she tells him.

“You won’t. I promise.”

Stiles pulls back, making a face at Scott’s words. “Promises can’t be kept,” he says cryptically before clapping his hands together. “Okay, well, back to work. Finish it up and lock up. I’m going to start cleaning off the cases.” He frowns at Scott and Allison still touching each other. “If your hand feels better, Scott, you can help Allison and Erica with the _kolaches_. Thanks.”

He leaves the kitchen, and Lydia follows.

This day is just so surreal. Allison wants to sit and have a good cry—has really wanted to do that since Kate was arrested—but this time, she doesn’t want to cry for her aunt’s victims or even for herself. She just wants to cry at the relief that Scott is back and hope he was successful so he won’t have to go away again.

Instead, she washes her hands, nudging Scott’s shoulders when he joins her at the hand washing sink. Erica lets Scott take her place and helps Danny load up the trays so that the _kolaches_ can rise again before they bake.

It’s nice. Calming.

Allison wonders how long it’ll last this time.

~ * ~


	23. Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're keeping up with the tags, please let me know if I've missed something. Thanks.

~ * ~

Camilla Crewe is flying in from Arkansas. She’ll be here either late Sunday night or early Monday morning. That leaves barely enough time to run a background check (that John refuses to feel guilty about) on her and call Isaac Lahey’s foster home to inform the boy of his mother’s impending visit.

Laney Folsom agrees to bring Isaac to the station for a brief chat, and John settles back in his chair, a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Unfortunately, his heartburn is back. John digs in his desk for the jumbo bottle of antacids he knows his deputies keep stocked for him. He finds it behind a stack of expense reports from a few years ago and pops a couple of the chewable tablets into his mouth.

Someone clears their throat and John swallows wrong.

He manages to stifle most of his coughs but his eyes still water and it takes a few moments before his vision clears enough for him to see James Hale standing in front of his desk.

John bites back an almost kneejerk reaction to ask him what he’s doing here.

Despite his personal feelings about the man, Hale is a citizen of Beacon Hills and is entitled to the same expectation of service no matter how scummy of a guy he is.

“Sheriff,” Hale says. “I need some help.”

Hale is haggard, like he hasn’t slept in a while. His stubble is starting to look like an actual beard. As a clean cut real estate lawyer, he doesn’t usually have any facial hair. His clothes are rumpled and he has on mismatched shoes.

“Depends on what kind of help you need,” John says mildly. He studies the bottle of antacids while Hale shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

For a long minute, the only sound is the rattle of the tablets as John spins the bottle.

Then suddenly, Hale says, “I want to divorce my wife.

John drops the bottle. He focuses on Hale’s face, noting the drawn pinch of it, the haunted look in his eyes, and the determined set of his jaw.

“You want me to help you seek a divorce?” John asks.

“Yes,” Hale says. “No. I mean, I want you to serve my wife with the papers.”

“Why?”

Hale shrugs. “My wife can be…overbearing.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” John interjects.

Hale smiles and there is so much pain that it really could be considered a grimace. “My wife likes control, and if you don’t fit into the box she wants you to, she either ignores everything about you or works to reform you.”

“Let me guess, you’re tired of the box she keeps putting you in.”

“No. I’m tired of how she treats our children. How she ignores what her brother is doing to our son. I’m tired of blindly following her lead just because I don’t want our family to fall apart.” Quieter, he adds, “I want to do something my kids can be proud of for once.”

“The charges against you won’t be dismissed.”

“Nor would I want them to be,” Hale says. “But, you may want to file them again after I change my name back.”

“Let’s get your papers delivered first. Do you already have procedures started?”

“I don’t but I know I can’t go back to that hellhole. I won’t spend one more minute with that woman.”

“I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, how about you talk to your lawyer and get some papers drawn up?”

Hale grits his teeth and scratches at his chin. “I don’t know any divorce lawyers, especially ones that would be available on a Saturday.”

John stares at Hale in fascinated horror. No wonder Talia was able to control him so easily; the man has no backbone, no will to stand up for himself, and when he does, he is woefully unprepared to care for himself.

“I can give you some numbers,” John offers.

Hale’s face brightens. “I’d appreciate that, yeah. Thank you.”

John sighs internally. He’ll have to ask Melissa for the number of the law office that handled her divorce. For now though, he needs to focus on closing out Lahey’s case. And he needs to get to the bottom of why Peter Hale’s anklet malfunctioned and why none of his deputies realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

He doesn’t have time to babysit James Hale while he starts divorce proceedings.

“Why don’t you give me the address you plan to stay at and I’ll get a hold of you with the number?”

 “Yeah, yeah. That sounds good. Look, I’m going out to my sister’s. She lives in San Diego, so I’m not leaving the state, but I’m not staying in Beacon Hills.”

Hale keeps talking, fumbling out a battered Steno pad and chewed pen to scribble his sister’s name, address, and phone number down.

“How can you leave when your children are still here, stuck in this town, trapped by your faults?”

Hale pauses. He wraps the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist, squeezing tightly for a moment before he lets go. John studies the man, in addition to his growing stubble and wrinkled clothing, he doesn’t appear to have washed his hair and it hangs limply in his eyes. It’s obvious the man is suffering, but John can’t help thinking that it’s of his own design.

Hale shakes his head. “Maybe I am a coward,” he says, “but if I distract her from our children, then that’s my way of protecting them.” He holds out his hand until John clasps it and pumps it a couple of times. “Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate your help.”

Hale disappears out the door, leaving John with a piece of paper in his hand and a rock in his stomach.

~ * ~

Chad carries Derek down the stairs the same way he carried him earlier, one arm under his knees, the other against his shoulders. Chad’s brother Ashton, who looks like Chad only with dyed black hair instead of blonde, carries the wheelchair. Laura follows, a few bills from her money cup clenched tightly in her fist.

The sight of it reminds Derek of the hundred-dollar bill she’d given him almost a week ago. Mom had kept it, so Derek hopes Laura got it back. After breakup with Benjamin, Laura will need all the help she can get since she will have to cover all the bills herself.

With his foot, Derek won’t be helping anyway and Cora can’t pay him back because she doesn’t have any money either. It makes him hyperaware of Laura paying for everyone’s ice creams at _Luana’s_.

The wheelchair is too bulky to fit through the door, and Derek refuses to be carried again. He opts to stay outside, staring listlessly at an ash tree growing in a patch of dirt in the middle of the sidewalk. Chad stays with him, picking up cigarette butts to toss in the city’s trash bin next to the tree.

Laura and Ashton return quickly with the cones, and Chad pushes Derek while he pretends to eat the double scoop of vanilla Laura got him.

As they walk (or roll, in Derek’s case), he realizes that they are heading toward the city park. Normally, he enjoys excursions there. No one looks twice at a teen practicing his hook shot in the hopes of being good enough to get an athletic scholarship. The problem Derek has now is this is the same park Peter just attacked him at.

He doesn’t recall if he told Laura that this is where Peter cornered him again, but he does know that familiar squeeze of his lungs. The ice of fear sliding down his spine to coil sickly in his belly.

“Stop, stop,” he manages to wheeze past the closing lump in his throat. “Please, let’s just go home.”

Embarrassingly, he feels panicked tears fall down his cheeks. He holds his breath to see if that will help him stop only to let out a sob when his body betrays him and he is forced to gulp in air.

“Hey,” Laura says, stooping next to him, hand sticky from her melting cone resting on his knee. He flinches under her grip and she pulls back quickly. “It’s okay. We’ll go back now. There’s no need to stay here.” She signals to Chad, and he turns the wheelchair around.

In a stage whisper, Ashton asks, “What’s the deal with the park?”

He’s shushed by Laura and his brother with Chad adding, “None of your goddamn business, asshole.”

“Sor- _ry_ ,” Ashton snipes back, and Laura whirls on him.

“Do you have a problem with my brother?” she demands.

“No.” Ashton sounds sullen though. Derek can guess what’s wrong. Ashton has probably heard the rumors about Derek abusing Cora. It hurts to think that people actually believe it, but he can’t say that he’s surprised.

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

“It’s just…” Ashton runs a hand over his hair, making it stand on end. “It’s…Are we really going to ignore the fact that he raped his sister?”

Chad’s fist smashes into Ashton’s mouth. The blow knocks the older Moreno brother off his feet, and he sits on the sidewalk, hand pressed to his bleeding lip.

“If you ever say something so stupid again, I’ll do you worse than that,” Chad says. “You owe Derek an apology.”

Ashton spits out a mouthful of blood, glaring up at them. “You’re so far up their asses that you’re willing to ignore all the evidence against him. You just want to fuck him. God, you’re such a slut.”

“What the fuck, you asshole!” Laura shouts. Chad just stands there, his hands clenched into fists. “Do you even hear what’s coming out of your mouth? You know what, get the fuck away from us. If I ever hear you say anything against my brother or yours, I’ll fucking knock your whole face in.”

She steps toward Ashton, and he scuttles backward. “You’re all fucking crazy,” he says. “If any of you touch me, I’ll call the cops.” He stands up, dusts himself off, and storms away.

“I need to get out of that apartment,” Chad says. He glances at Derek with a worried expression. “You know that I don’t want to sleep with you, right? I mean, I do find you attractive, but you’re too young to be on my radar.”

“Understood,” Derek murmurs. He feels shell-shocked, numb and cold. Ashton isn’t the first to accuse him of raping Cora and he probably won’t be the last, but Derek actually knows him somewhat. Hell, Laura just bought him ice cream. It hurts worse to realize people close to him believe a lie about him. Derek wonders what the kids at the bakery think.

Do they too believe that he would hurt his own sister or will they withhold their judgment until all the facts are revealed?

“Come on, Derek,” Laura says, breaking into his thoughts. “Let’s go home. You can rest while Chad and I move him out of his apartment.”

Derek guesses that Laura will take Chad in. She’s kind like that. Derek doesn’t mind. Chad is good and doesn’t believe the lies about him.

And Laura can use whatever help Chad brings in.

It’s a good idea. The only thing wrong with it is that the apartment won’t have enough room for all of them. But, that’s a bridge they can cross when it rears its head. Derek really needs to rest. His metaphors are all jumbled together. A side effect of the earlier panic, the rush and abatement of adrenaline.

Yeah, resting sounds like a good idea

~ * ~

Jason shares his graph paper and a working pen when he realizes that Cora has no supplies of her own yet.

“So, Cora,” he says, scribbling a formula that looks like it has nothing to do with the genetic workup of the potato they are all supposed to be working on, “got any crushes?”

Cora ignores him, shading squares to spell her name. She doesn’t want to share Liam’s name with him. What if he makes fun of Liam too? Willow Unit is the ‘stupid’ unit after all.

“That bad, huh?” Jason laughs to himself. “Well, I’ll break the ice: I’ve got my eye on a couple of people. Thomas Epps in Sycamore and Dana Rousett in Redwood.”

Cora glances around the room to find that absolutely no one is paying attention to their conversation.

“I’ve got a sort-of date with Liam Dunbar,” she admits, refusing to identify his unit. Jason doesn’t press her.

Instead, he says, “Cool,” and wads up his paper to throw at the elected spokesperson.

Kalico Summerson throws it back and it bounces off Cora’s head. She narrows her eyes in annoyance. Kalico isn’t a mean person per se (usually around adults), but she has a cruel streak. Cora has been on the receiving end of it a time or two. If Kalico finds out about Liam and Cora’s almost-maybe date, both Liam and Cora’s reputations will be battered.

She will need to strike first and hard, leave Kalico reeling so that she won’t have the energy to retaliate.

Using Jason’s leftover graph paper, Cora designs a miniature catapult. She can gather ammo at dinner tonight. Kalico likes long showers. She can be counted on to take a half an hour in the bathroom in the morning. Cora can ambush her there.

“O-M-G!” Kalico squeals. “Fresh meat likes Jay-weird!”

Or Kalico could just try to ruin Cora’s life now.

“I hate you,” she mouths at Kalico. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens, no doubt to spill some other untrue drivel. Jason tosses the ball of paper again and it smacks against Kalico’s lips.

“Ms. Adders!” Kalico wails.

“Move away from them, Ms. Summerson, and leave them alone. Mr. Johnson, Ms. Hale, do not exacerbate the situation. Children, we do not engage in petty gossip. We do not fight over rumors. We are here to foster our minds, to better the world. There is also to be no in-fighting. When we present our ideas later today, we need to be unified. It isn’t one group against another but all of us against the stigma of hopelessness.”

A rousing speech, to be sure, but it echoes hollowly in Cora’s ears. Ms. Adders might believe that she’s solved the ‘petty’ gossip, but Cora can see Kalico passing notes to her friends.

No matter where she goes, she’s always going to have the rich bitches dogging her steps. It’s not fair.

Despite having paid nearly a grand to be here, Cora wants nothing more than to go home to her brother and sister.

Jason nudges her. “It’ll be okay,” he says quietly. “You’ll make it through just fine. You always do.”

“And what about you?” Cora asks. Kalico had called him something—Jayweird. Why?

“Oh, I’ll be splendid. I’m like rubber. Insults bounce right off me.”

“It doesn’t bother you when they call you names or act like they’re better than you?”

“It does,” he admits. “But I can either give them the satisfaction of breaking me or I can keep them from winning by giving them nothing.”

For some reason, Derek comes to mind. He never says anything against their parents, nor does he react to the punishments he is assigned. But, who gets the satisfaction when Mom and Dad’s silence allows Peter to hurt her brother? Does Derek’s own silence hide his resentment? It must. Cora’s silence does.

Who wins in a fight like that, she wants to ask Jason.

No one, that’s who, she answers herself.

No winners, only losers and victims.

And survivors.

~ * ~

Turns out Chad has three boxes and a suitcase and he’s moved out from his brother’s apartment.

Laura wishes the Morenos hadn’t been in the unit down from her since it’ll be awkward when they run into Ashton.

Thankfully, the bastard isn’t back from wherever he crawled off to, so Laura hefts the last box, a good thirty or forty pounds of clothes, and lugs it up the stairs to her apartment.

Derek is lying on the queen sized bed she used to share with Benjamin. And, shit. What if her ex comes back tonight? Technically, this is still his home too even if it’s just her name on the lease. Laura takes one look around at Chad’s gathered stuff, at her friend sorting out the deflated air mattress, at where she can see Derek’s feet on her bed, and decides Benjamin has parents. He can deal.

Derek’s been quiet since Ashton’s outburst, and that worries Laura a little. Derek is always quiet, but lately, she’s realized that his silence masks sinister thoughts.

She allows him a little time to wallow. It’s not as if he can be much help right now. They can’t even unfold his wheelchair until they get Chad’s things moved into the spare room.

One good thing has come of Chad’s predicament, although Laura feels selfish when she leans down next to him.

“Hey,” she grabs Chad’s attention, “I know this is a lot to ask, but Derek has surgery scheduled on Monday and I need to be in Redding that day.”

“Sure, I’ll take Derek to the hospital,” Chad says easily. “It’s not a big deal—I mean, you are letting me stay here until I can find my own place. The least I can do is make sure your brother gets where he needs to go safely.”

“Thank you,” Laura says earnestly. From the bedroom, unprompted, Derek calls out his thanks too.

“Hey, he’s not mad at me anymore!”

“Are you kidding? You helped him get ice cream. That’s the quickest way to his heart.” Laura wonders if that was something Peter did too. She read somewhere that certain sexual predators would groom their victims, give them special treats or praise to buy their silence.

She knows Peter threatened Derek with Cora’s safety, but was that always the case? Hadn’t Peter been sent to that rehabilitation center when he was eleven? Derek would have been three…

How do you buy a three year old’s silence?

The answer might be the same as it is today: Talia and James just didn’t care.

Frustrated tears spring to her eyes, and she knuckles them away quickly. Going in circles isn’t going to help anyone. She needs to be productive.

Logically, she knows that she can’t afford this apartment by herself. The answer to that is split rent with Chad. It’s what they’re going to do for a little while anyway.

That means, though, that she won’t have room for both Derek and Cora.

There aren’t many affordable places in Beacon Hills that have the right amount of space.

And, she doesn’t know if she will be granted custody of her siblings.

Laura needs help but she doesn’t know where to turn.

Except…Maybe, the Stilinskis?

He’s the sheriff and she’s the influential business owner. And even if they’re unwilling to help her, Laura is positive they’ll have other resources.

Maybe she isn’t as alone as she thought she was.

Still, her breakup with Benjamin could cause rifts in her relationships with people that she doesn’t even know that were invested in her couple-dom with Benjamin. Like the grocery clerk who always asks why she’s not at college and when she’s going to settle down and pop out a few.

“Laura?” Chad says, drawing her out of her thoughts.

A sharp wail interrupts Chad’s next words, and they both run to the source: Derek.

Her brother is halfway off the bed, like he’d tried climbing off and got stuck because his good foot is braced against the floor while he struggles to pull himself back up without using his injured foot. As they watch, he slips another inch and howls when the heel of his right foot impacts the floor.

Chad moves quickly to haul him back onto the bed while Laura runs to the bathroom to grab some painkillers and a glass of water.

After Derek is secure again, his only explanation is that he was just trying to get comfortable. Laura storms away, leaving Derek staring bewildered after her.

She sinks down onto the couch and covers her face while she cries. Chad sits next to her. “How can I take care of them when I can’t even get this right?” she asks.

Chad pats her shoulder. “You’ll make it through,” he says, reassuringly. “You’ve got a level head. I know you already have plans on how to make everything work. I want you to know that you aren’t alone. I’ll always be here to help. I know you’ll need to get out of here. This whole town is so fucked up in how they’re treating your brother. But, I know it’s not feasible yet. Don’t worry about it. Breathe. You’ll all make it out. You will.”

Laura wishes she had his conviction. As it is, she allows him to pull her down into a hug, taking comfort from the fact that he’s on her side.

~ * ~

By the time everyone has presented, Cora is more than sick of Fichus Unit. She wishes she had gone to Willow like Director Calverson wanted even if just to be near Liam.

Kalico is ignoring her at least. Instead, she’s focused on picking on Jason and his double-crush.

Cora offers Jason a raised eyebrow and he waves her away so she leaves them to it. Hopefully one of the counselors present will take action. Most of them seem bored by the stumbling, um-filled monologues of the Units’ science projects.

After sixty yawn-inducing minutes, every project is given the go-ahead, and the campers are dismissed for ‘outdoor activities’ for two hours with an enforced water break every thirty minutes.

Since all the units are here, it doesn’t take long for Liam to find Cora and follow her as she stomps around the fenced in playground. He doesn’t say anything and neither does she.

Slowly, the tension leaves her and she finds herself smiling as Liam waves at all the kids from Willow Unit. She wishes she had his ability to make friends wherever he goes.

“You seem happy,” she remarks after their first water break.

“I am,” he replies. “It’s nice not to be lost when the teacher explains something. And we’re making potato clocks. Isn’t that cool?”

Cora hums. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him she made her first electrochemical battery when she was five.

“Did you get to do your genealogical report on the potato?”

Cora knocks shoulders. “We were just at the assembly. You should already know this.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” He reaches for her hand, and Cora hates the way she glances around first to make sure no one is looking at them before she allows him to twine their fingers together. His palm is wet, warm and sweaty, and kind of gross. She wonders what her hand feels like to him. Probably dry and scaly.

“My mom’s moving,” Liam says suddenly. “She met some guy online and they ‘hit it off.’ And now I have to be the new kid at another school.”

Cora makes a sympathetic noise in her throat. “Where are you moving to?”

“Some tiny town in Northern California. Beacon…something. Maybe Valley. Anyway, there’s probably nothing to do there. Not like here.”

Wait, he’s moving to her town? To Beacon Hills?

She squeezes his hand in excitement, blurting, “There’s plenty to do in Beacon Hills. Like, there’s the bakery and the pool. And there’s a bowling alley. Plus Redding has a movie theater. And Hill Valley has an arcade. There’s plenty to do in the area.”

“You’re from Beacon Hills?”

“Yeah, I thought you knew this. It’s in our introductions every year.”

“Yeah, I never pay attention—it takes a lot of time to get through everyone and I don’t have enough patience for it.”

Cora pretends to be outraged at his blatant and continued ignorance. Secretly, she’s pleased. Hale is after Dunbar alphabetically. What else doesn’t Liam know about her? What of her image can she control? She already told him about her brother.

“Do you like ice cream?”

Liam stares at her. “Do I like ice cream?” he repeats. “Do blue wavelengths travel slower?  Do ships displace less water than it takes to float? Of course I like ice cream.”

“Good. There’s a really cool parlor in Beacon Hills. If you move there, I’ll show you all the good spots.”

“That would be awesome,” Liam says. He nods at one of the counselors signaling at them. “Another water break.”

“Sure.” Cora all but glides to the fountain where they wait their turn. The more she holds Liam’s hand, the more she likes it and doesn’t care if Kalico or any of the other rich bitches see her.

It’s a strangely freeing sensation.

~ * ~


	24. Twenty-Three

~ * ~

Saturday evening passes uneventfully, for which Derek is thankful.

He has more pain meds in his system, and although he usually dislikes the way they fog his head or make it difficult to rest properly, he enjoys the pain-free state.

Chad watches him and helps him as needed, but Derek sleeps most of the night, waking a few times for some water or a bathroom break.

Sunday dawns early. Chad is gone. At his job, Laura explains as she helps Derek into the wheelchair. She leaves him to shower, and he manages without incident.

“I need to put in some resumes,” Laura tells him over dry cereal. The milk has gone sour, and Laura drains it before offering water. Derek shakes his head at the water and nods at the job seeking.

Laura finishes her cup of coffee and sets the mug in the sink. Derek watches her warily, setting his spoon down.

“We need help paying for the surgery,” she says. “So, I’m going to talk to Daniel—Mr. Votsky.”

“Will Benjamin be there?”

Laura shrugs. “Maybe? It’s his parents’ house. He should be on shift now anyway.”

“Will his dad help you?”

“The Votskys aren’t petty. I should be fine.” She looks like she thinks she’ll be anything but, and only the knowledge that they need the help Mr. Votsky can offer keeps Derek’s mouth shut. “I’ll try to be back in a couple of hours.” Laura studies him, his barely touched breakfast. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

“I’ll have to be,” he answers. Laura glares at the wall behind his head. “I’ll lock the door,” he promises. “I’ll be fine. You won’t have to worry about me.”

Laura holds out her arms, and Derek frowns at her.

“A hug,” she explains. “I want to hug you.”

He nods. A brief hug won’t kill him. Besides, he should get used to people touching him. Especially if Kate and Peter stand trial. Laura wraps her arms around him for a count of five seconds before she pulls away. Derek clenches his fists to keep from helping her let go.

“I know,” she says. “We’ll work on it.” Then she grabs her purse and locks the door behind her.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, Derek is completely alone.

He manages to move from the wheelchair to the couch without jostling his foot too much. But once there, he realizes two things. One, there is nothing to do. And two, he has to use the bathroom again.

Two hours is a long time, and that’s if Laura doesn’t get caught up somewhere. Derek sighs. Exasperation and frustration are too weak of words to describe just how _done_ he is with this stage in his life.

Nothing to do, though, but work through it.

Derek hauls himself back into the wheelchair and goes to the bathroom. The transfer between seats goes smoother than expected, and shortly, he finds himself wandering the apartment, collecting as many books as he can. Most of them are either on the history of dance or various hobby books, but it’s something to do while he waits for Laura to come back.

Half an hour later, Derek climbs into the wheelchair again and hunts down paper and pens. One of the hobby books details building doll furniture.

The Folsoms own the lumberyard. He can ask them for scraps and if he becomes good enough at it, he can maybe sell the pieces.

It’ll be a job.

~ * ~

_Kitchen Fresh_ is closed, and Laura stares dumbfounded at the sign denoting that fact for far too long before she shakes off the shock and gets back into her car.

Mrs. Stilinski is a bust, but that leaves the Sheriff. If he is out of the office too then Laura will panic. For now, she draws on the belief that Chad expressed last night and squares her shoulders.

Even with Benjamin, who thankfully did not return last night, working at the station, Laura is positive she can get a job as a clerk.

Sheriff Stilinski is on his way out as she enters, and he points her to the front desk where a man not much older than her hands her an application.

Laura thanks him, fills it out, and returns it in ten minutes.

Then she sits in her car for another ten minutes. She needs to talk to Daniel since she’s running out of options.

Of course, she can keep working for Emilio, but that’s minimum wage and he refuses to give her forty hours a week. Plus he doesn’t let her keep tips.

Laura sighs. She can’t afford to be too picky, but she’d like something that will pay the bills and have enough left over to help pay the costs of Derek’s upcoming surgery.

Perhaps that job isn’t even in Beacon Hills. God, if she could just pick everything up and move, they’d be on their way to healing.

Laura knows that’s the wrong approach to take since she has no guarantee that moving will help anything. In fact, the only thing that will change is how the people outside of what little family Derek has left treat him.

She hits the steering wheel in frustration before putting the car in gear and pulling away from the Sheriff’s Station.

Since it’s Sunday, the Votskys are outside enjoying the summer sun. Alice glares at Laura when she pulls into the driveway. This is a bad idea. She should just go.

Before she can shift to reverse, Daniel taps on her window. Laura lowers it a little.

“Laura,” he says cheerfully. “It’s good to see you. Benjamin says you had a little falling out, but I want you to know that we still support you.”

Laura studies Alice with a critical eye. Daniel notices it and sighs.

“Benjamin may have also told us some of the details of the falling out.”

“I’ll apologize to him,” Laura says, “but he needs to apologize to Derek too.”

“Would you like either of us present?”

Laura thinks about it for a moment. “Yes,” she decides. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Settled. Now, what can I do for you? I know you didn’t come here looking for Benjamin.”

“I’m trying to find other jobs that I can do to support my siblings and myself if I am granted custody tomorrow.”

“You’ve tried everywhere?”

Laura shakes her head. “I’m just putting in applications right now. But I know I don’t have enough money to pay for the surgery Derek needs. You’d offered to help us find programs. Are you still able to do that?”

“Of course,” Daniel says. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow after your custody hearing and I’ll have more information for you.”

“That’d be great, thank you.”

Daniel smiles at her. “You’re doing amazing, Laura. Don’t forget that.” He shakes her hand and then steps back so that she can pull out of their driveway.

As Laura heads back to her apartment, she makes a quick detour to _Luana’s_. Mrs. Halvershiem has been kind to her ever since she moved in almost two years ago. And she’s been unchanged with Derek since this shit hit the fan.

Mrs. Halvershiem looks sad when Laura enquires about job openings.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “I don’t have anything for you. I know the library is looking for help, but they’re closed today. The bakery is still hiring. Perhaps the bowling alley?”

“Thank you,” Laura says, and Mrs. Halvershiem sighs.

“I wish I could be more help.”

“You’ve done plenty,” Laura assures her. “This whole town has gone mad. The things they’ve said about my brother…I know he’s mowed their lawns and cleaned their pools. Why are they treating him like this?”

“They’re afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of the fact that this happened to someone they know. They’re afraid of it happening for no reason or having no consequences.”

“They’re accusing him of raping his sister!”

“And your uncle is accused of raping his nephew. Just because you know Derek didn’t hurt Cora, it doesn’t that others know it too. There are statistics upon statistics that confirm children who suffered sexual abuse do become abusers themselves. But people tend to exclude the most important statistic: over fifty percent of children who suffered abuse _do not_ become abusers.”

“And Derek is being falsely accused of hurting Cora because of these statistics? Don’t they care at all that they’re harming a victim?”

“They probably either think they’re helping or that they’re sharing pertinent information. I’ll keep banning them for my store whenever I can, but unfortunately, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Laura shakes her head. “I wish we could leave this town in the dust. I think that’d be the best thing I could do for my brother and sister.”

“If you ever need help, let me know. I’ll do everything in my power to make things easier for you.”

“Thank you.” Laura hugs Mrs. Halvershiem. When she steps out onto the sidewalk, she notices a Beacon Hills Sheriff’s car parked next to her Focus. Benjamin leans against the hood, watching her with a worried expression.

“What’s wrong?” Laura asks, keeping her distance. Despite her agreement with Daniel, she isn’t quite ready to apologize to him yet.

“We got a complaint about assault. Why’d you hit Ashton Moreno?”

“He insulted both his brother and mine.” Laura isn’t sure if she should be amused or upset at the fact that Ashton is blaming her for his fucked up mouth. She’s not going to rat out Chad either way.

“Laura,” Benjamin sighs, “you can’t just attack everybody who says something you don’t like.”

“Don’t do that,” she says, angry. “Don’t pretend that I should turn the other cheek just so they can slap me again.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you turn to violence as a first resort when people disagree with you.”

“I didn’t touch Ashton.”

“Then how’d he lose the tooth?”

She shrugs. “Maybe he tripped on his ego. I didn’t see.”

“Then why did he say you punched him?”

Laura shrugs again. “Because he’s an asshole like that. You know what he’s like. Has he ever been anything but self-serving and conniving?”

“True, but that still doesn’t give you the right to hit him.”

“I didn’t hit him,” Laura repeats coldly. “If you don’t mind, I really need to get back to Derek right now.”

She climbs into her car and drives away. She has to stop barely a block away because she’s shaking too hard to concentrate on the road. Fucking Ashton.

She _should_ have punched his skull in. Then, she’d be happier to take responsibility for his injuries, Until then, Benjamin can fuck off. He isn’t getting an apology anytime soon, that is for sure.

~ * ~

Derek spends thirty minutes on a sketch of a desk before he throws the pen down. He can’t get the design right.

Maybe he should start smaller?

A chair looks simple enough.

So does a bed.

Neither actually is simple, but at least Derek is satisfied with the design of the bed.

His hand is cramping by the time he folds his notes together. He’s just decided to put the books away and take a nap when the door unlocks.

It’s only Laura, but his heart still races.

Belatedly, Laura calls his name. “I’m back,” she adds unnecessarily.

“I see that,” he manages.

“I put out a few more applications. Hopefully, I’ll hear back soon.” Laura picks up the furniture book. “Are you looking for a hobby?”

“Actually, I was hoping to be able to make things we could sell. Right now, I’m still figuring out the logistics of it all.”

“I don’t want you to worry about that right now. It’s _not_ your concern.”

“But it is! I’m the reason that this whole town is going to hell. I’m the reason you and Benjamin broke up. I’m the reason you have to worry about money right now. I’m not going to stop worrying about the strain I’m putting on you.” Derek wipes away the frustrated tears that have started to fall. “I wish things hadn’t changed,” he whispers. “I wish I’d never said anything.”

Laura looks like she wants to disagree, but she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “Why?”

“Why don’t I want things to be changed?” She nods. He sighs. “Because I knew what to do then. When Mom and Dad were mad at me, I knew how to wait them out. When Peter and then Kate used me, I knew how to hide it. Now I feel like if I’m breathing, I’m doing something wrong. I don’t know how to survive a situation like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Laura says softly. “I’m sorry that I left you there. And I’m sorry that you feel so lost right now. I’m sorry that I’m not helping you more.”

“You are helping,” Derek protests.

Laura holds up a hand. “You’re allowed to be mad at people, Derek, even me. You are allowed to be human and resent the situations you’re in even if they’re less toxic than the previous ones. You are allowed to just be without having to worry about helping others.” She grabs his hands, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles before releasing him. “Be, Derek. Just be.”

“But I can’t,” he tells her. “I don’t know how.”

“Then we’ll learn together.” Laura hands him the furniture book. “Do you really want to do this?”

Derek shrugs. “It’d take time to learn how to do it plus tools and materials. It’d probably be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“But do you want to do it?” Laura stresses.

Derek thinks about it. On the one hand, woodworking is time consuming and it’ll be expensive at first. On the other hand, Derek actually felt content and at ease designing the furniture. With his surgery tomorrow, he’ll be laid up for a while. He’ll need something to do.

“I really think I would like to do that,” he says, feeling like he’s opening a piece of himself up for scrutiny.

Laura nods, not judging him. “That’s settled then. I’ll get the tools and materials for you tomorrow after my court appointment, okay?”

“Okay.” Derek tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t help the smile that breaks out. He’s relieved that she’s supporting him like she said she would. He’s so proud of his sister for everything she’s accomplished. He hopes she wins custody over Cora and him even if she can’t financially take care of them. He plans to help as best he can as soon as he can.

~ * ~

Stiles runs down to the bakery to check on a few things and ends up taking a call from one of the winter-workers.

Marie Johnson, mother to Pastor Johnson, is cutting her vacation short to come back and help. Since she only hopped downstate to visit her grandchildren from her other son, she’ll be back up later today and can work tomorrow.

Marie is one of Mom’s oldest workers, which means she can act as manager until Mom gets back on her feet.

Stiles doesn’t know when that will be. She still hasn’t responded to the news that Scott is back from the dead.

Dad was home briefly to grab lunch and mentioned that Laura Hale is looking for a job.

Maybe he can swing by her apartment and offer her a job? It’s fortuitous that he has openings to give her. Labor laws prevent the teen crew from working more than eight hours during the school year, which is fast approaching.

Stiles leaves a voicemail on Mom’s unanswered cell explaining about Marie and Laura.

Done with that, he cleans the machines and ovens, using his frustration with Mom to fuel his energy. Three hours later, he has everything ready for tomorrow.

Because his dad was watching him, Stiles has his bike instead of the Jeep. He doesn’t mind. After being cooped up for so long in the bakery, even the heat of the day doesn’t bother him.

He knows he was at Laura’s apartment on Wednesday, but damned if he can remember exactly where it is.

All he really remembers is that it’s close to an ice cream parlor named after some dead girl from early in his dad’s career as a deputy.

He finds _Luana’s_ easy enough and buys a double-scoop strawberry cone. He sits at one of the tall tables to eat it quickly. Then he goes back to the counter. The elderly man who took his money is suspicious when Stiles asks if he knows where Laura Hale lives.

“Who’s asking?” The man studies Stiles with prejudice.

Stiles pulls out the application he’d taken from Mom’s office. “I was hoping to offer her a job,” he says.

“My wife might know better. She just had to step away for a minute. I’ll go get her. Wait here.” He shuffles away before Stiles can say anything. A few minutes later, a woman pops into view.

“How can I help you, dearie?” she asks, turning around a canister on the counter. It’s plastered with a donation cause, and Stiles catches the Hale name. He digs in his pocket for the change from his ice cream to drop into it.

The woman’s demeanor changes immediately. She smiles at Stiles and takes his elbow to lead him outside. “So you’re trying to help the Hale children, are you?”

“As much as I can.”

“I’m sure you’re doing fine.” Mrs. Halvershiem points toward the apartments the next street over. Stiles wants to facepalm. Laura lives in the Court Street Apartments. Duh. “They live on the second floor. Knock gently and announce yourself.”

She leaves him standing with his bike. Stiles rolls his shoulders and wheels his bike to the racks in front of Laura’s apartment. He takes a deep breath and starts climbing.

Laura opens the door before he reaches it. “Stiles, hi,” she says softly, closing the door behind her. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to give you this,” he says, handing her the application. “With my mom being out right now, we’re going to be hiring. I know we’ll have to advertise, but I wanted to let you know about it first.”

Laura takes the paper, studying it quickly. “Thank you,” she says. “Do you want to come in while I fill it out?” He nods. “Derek’s asleep right now, so please be as quiet as you can.”

Stiles nods again to show his understanding. Laura allows him inside. Derek is on the couch, face pinched in pain as he shifts restlessly.

Laura puts her hand on his forehead and sighs. “I’m going to have to take him back to the hospital. I think he has an infection.”

“In his foot?”

Laura shakes her head but doesn’t say where she thinks the infection is, and Stiles doesn’t press.

Derek settles a little under Laura’s hand.

“I’ve got pens in the kitchen.” Laura points, and Stiles steps into the room. The kitchen is small, a table butted up against the far wall, the single counter crowded with appliances. A tiny stove and refrigerator make up the rest of the furniture. Laura lifts her chair to move it, setting it down so that she can slide into it. Stiles copies her.

Laura begins filling out the application. When she is done, she hands it back to Stiles.

“Chad should be back soon,” she muses, checking the clock on the stove. “Do you want to stay or did you need to go?”

“I can stay,” Stiles says. Mom isn’t expecting him back, and Dad’s still busy at the station. He wants to ask Laura about Benjamin but he also doesn’t want to be nosy.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

Stiles knows, okay, that the Hale kids don’t have much money. Benjamin is always picking up shifts at the station, and Laura works pretty consistently at _Emilio’s_. Stiles isn’t so sure that that’s not a good thing.

As far as he knows, Emilio only pays minimum wage and he limits his hours. Hell, Laura probably only teaches dance on the side to make a little extra money.

“I’m fine,” he says. His mouth tastes awful from the ice cream earlier, and he amends, “Water is good.”

Laura fills a glass from the tap and hands it to him. She sits down with her own glass.

“I’m worried about tomorrow,” she confesses, spinning the glass, studying it instead of making eye contact. “I have to be in Redding for the preliminary custody hearing, and Derek has surgery. I don’t know who I can get to be there for Derek when he comes out.”

“What about Benjamin?” Stiles suggests.

Laura looks up at that. “No,” she says firmly. “I don’t want Benjamin anywhere near Derek.”

Stiles holds up his hands to say sorry. It’s news to him that they’re, what? Broken up? Hadn’t Laura said something about “Chad” coming back? Is Chad the new boyfriend? Isn’t that just a little fast? “Can Chad do it?”

Laura shakes her head. “Chad will be working.”

“Technically, I will be working too,” Stiles says. “At my mom’s bakery. We’re a little short-staffed right now.” He taps her application. “My mom is laid up with something so until the usual acting manager steps in, I have to be there.”

“I understand.” Laura sighs.

“Maybe one of the deputies could sit with him or, I don’t know, does Derek have any friends?”

“Not outside of school. He’s friends with a few kids in the grades below. I think it’s because he buys them lunch.”

Stiles winces. “I think they’ll be working at the bakery tomorrow. My mom hired them.”

“Oh,” Laura says suddenly. “I’ll ask Mrs. Halvershiem. Her husband runs the shop in the morning.”

“That’s _Luana’s_ , right? They have a donation jar for you.”

“Really?” Laura frowns down at her still-full glass. “I’d seen the canister, but I hadn’t noticed what it was for.”

“My mom has one at the bakery too.”

“I don’t know if we should accept them. I mean, it’s nice that your mom and Mrs. Halvershiem have done that, but this town seems so biased against Derek. He mows lawns and cleans pools. How the hell is that offensive?”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Stiles has heard his dad talking to his mom about past cases. He knows how hard it is for male victims of sexual abuse to talk about their suffering and be believed. “I think they just don’t want to believe that it happens.”

“People are shitty.”

Stiles bites his tongue on the automatic “Not all people” that he’d usually say to dispel the generalizations made. Laura has more right to say it than he has to correct her. She’s definitely run into more shitty people than he has. The scene at the post office on Wednesday comes to mind. So does the whole thing with Gerard Argent and any of the book club members.

Jesus but these people really are shitty.

“I need to get going,” Stiles says when Laura looks at the clock again. It’s almost 6:00. If Dad is home now, then he’ll be wondering where Stiles is any second now. “Thank you for the water. I’ll see you tomorrow if you can make it in?” He taps her application for emphasis before rolling it up and sticking it into the one pocket on his shorts with a working zipper.

Laura nods. “Thank you for thinking of me. I don’t know how long the hearing will take though.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure you will even have your hearing tomorrow. It might just be assigning you an attorney or the judge forgoing you both to put Derek and Cora in foster care.”

“I’m trying to avoid foster care,” Laura says. “I know if they’re put in the system, my chances of getting them back are almost nonexistent.”

Stiles’ phones buzzes before he can respond to that. As expected, it’s his father. “Dad,” he answers.

“Stiles, where the hell are you?”

“I’m at Laura Hale’s.”

“Why? Wait, that’s not important. You need to come home now. It’s mom.”

~ * ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since adding a chapter here. This story is the most slow-going right now because I'm still handwriting it. I know where it's going to end and I know how it's going to end. Getting there is the issue.
> 
> The closest I can come to where I originally got the statistic used by Mrs. Halvershiem is [here](https://www.nichd.nih.gov/news/releases/042115-podcast-child-abuse). Please keep in mind that it isn’t a true statistic, can be revoked or explained as wrong-info sharing at any time, and that I do not 100% stand behind it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has or will read, has subscribed, bookmarked, left kudos, and commented. Your support is greatly appreciated.


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